No, I’m not done. Wanted you to have the opportunity to read more of what I’ve already written, so the new stuff will seem new when you read it. Not much sense that’s happening.

We’re coming up on the State of the Union pile of alternate universe lefty propaganda. Where none of our real concerns and issues are mentioned. So here are the three best homework assignments you can perform before the president misdirects us with shiny trifles and more dreadful misrepresentations and lies.

The Glossary.

House of Lords. (Extra credit for Part Deux.)

TBB, Book of Psayings, Chapter 5Y.

I also have a long list of recent Op-Ed columns that restate what I’ve been writing for years. Won’t share those yet.

People don’t understand how the language of our politics has been distorted and destroyed.

And they don’t understand anything about the 21st century political ruling class.

They also don’t know anything about history, the timeline of our journey from the past till today.

An experiment: seek out youngsters, even your own, and ask them to identify the events in Psayings.5Y. Hell. Ask yourself to identify them.

This is how and why we die. We don’t understand language and its misuses, we don’t understand the incestuous new caste that will say anything to stay in charge, and we don’t know where we come from. Why we have no idea where we’re we going.

I’ll be back soon.

P.S. Have to admit I’m thinking of taking Shuteye Town down for repairs. Approximately half the links are broken. You don’t always get arrested going to the stores and there’s another level, sometimes five or more when you try to go upstairs at individual stations on the subway line. Not working. My apologies. In the meantime, amuse yourselves at Moon Books and Toot Video. You get into Moon Books by clicking on crime scene tape.

I used to pretend I was alone. I’m not. Never have been.

I am overcome. You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to have your life’s work available to everyone in a handful of headers on a web page. Yes, there are still missing pieces, but they’re not as missing as they might seem to be. A good chunk of the text that’s not available at Shuteye Town 1999 (excepting the infamous ‘Zeezer Bible’) is available at Instapunk. You have to do an advanced search at the IP site for “punk writing,” “Pangloss,” and “the naked woman.” And the old Boomer Bible website is still sitting in the limbo of the Wayback Machine, along with links to the old Delphi Forum, where lightning struck me onto the Internet. Still. What’s here is the lion’s share of my writing career.

What I feel most of all is gratitude. To Lake, to Guy, to Brizoni, to Rob Davey, to George, to my wife, to countless others who believed enough in what I was doing to make it translatable to the Internet generation. (Null, Winston, Malechai, Kajeshell, you know who you are.) The online Boomer Bible is, to me, a miracle. I wrote the Intercolumn Reference before there was a technology to make it as instantaneous as it was in my head. Now, thanks to more hours of hard labor than I can imagine, by more people than I can ever hope to meet and thank, the impossible is a pulsing computer simulation of my mind.

How could anyone be justified in hoping for such an outcome? When I succumb, as I often do, to despair about my country or my fellow men, I am yanked out of it by the extraordinary good fortune I have had in this life. There have been many bad moments in that life, but the truth is that the bad times were always fuel for my writing. And now I feel the warmth of being surrounded physically and electronically by good people who continue to inspire me with their courage and vitality. Sue, Marge, John, Jay, Sandy, Robby, Elle, Don, Peg, Shelby, Matt, Mel, Dave, Stephanie, Linda (both of them), Rita, Janet, Michael, Genevieve, Emily, Sarah, Josh, and of course James, Sarah, Austin, Mary, Emily, and Anna. And always and transcendently Pat. Plus all the others whose names will become headlines in my consciousness after I post this. (Eddie, Helk, FA, Barbara, Peregrine John, Suds46, DRV, and on and on…)

I look up to all these people. Writers always exist on the sidelines to some degree. We are watching and making notes while everyone else is getting on with the substance of life. Raising kids, turning houses into homes, teaching the ones who can be taught, striving in their individual ways, providing the living example of what goodness is in fact, not theory.

All these years in, I am experiencing a sense of humility that did not come naturally to me. Because I’m so late to the party, I feel now my multitudinous flaws with a sense of shame. All I have to throw into the balance is the set of headers at Deerhound Diary.

Elation mixed with disappointment. I wanted to be Doctor Dream. What I am is an old man whose best days are now and seem wildly undeserved.

What a writer does. He makes things up.

A long long way of saying I value your responses. Let me know, good, bad or indifferent, what you think. I promise I will be listening.

The Pleiades. AKA The Seven Sisters of Heaven.

Well, that’s the classical, academic version anyway. Now here’s the one-woman show as performed by a single greyhound. You tell me which is more cosmic.

Thought so. One greyhound equals more than seven goddesses. Why we are so privileged to be here on earth.

Past the cheminee to the arbor is eternity when it snows.

I’d give you moonlight if I could. But in the country when it’s dark it’s dark. One of the great beautiful things about the country. Sometimes the winter night is a clamp. No light allowed.

No need for fear. Time for deep, hibernating sleep. The hard thing is waking up. Comes a time when the sun returns and you groan and roll over because the dark is easier. But then, if you’re lucky, the deerhound pounces oh so gently on you to insist that it’s time for breakfast and another day.

Time to get up, boss.

But when it’s really dark, Raebert sleeps in too. We’re snowed in. And we’ll sleep in to enjoy it.

You know that scene in the disaster movies where the big structure is slowly but then more and more quickly coming apart? And the stars are still dueling over ancient marital grudges and who’s responsible for their rotten slacker kids?

How today feels. LA wildfires, another school shooting, this time by a 12 year old, the MSM still obsessively piling on ‘ChristieGate’ while the entire Obama administration is imploding in a morass of corruption, incompetence, and dictatorial aggression. Not that any of that is a real story. Not the president’s naked threat to rule by edict in defiance of the congress and the constitution. Not the DOJ’s new initiative to punish schools for punishing minorities more than, er, non-minorities for truancy, violence, disruptive classroom behavior, and deliberate academic failure. Not the frank derision of Brit, Israeli, and Iranian diplomats about the gullible cluelessness of our president. Not the senate report on Benghazi which commits the heresy of faulting the state department, DOD, the CIA, and by subtle inference the president for American deaths that could and should have been prevented. Not the FBI mildly announcing there’s no illegality involved in IRS targeting of conservative groups, even though not one of the victims has ever been interviewed by the so-called investigation. Not the concurrence today of three congressional hearings on the accelerating severity of security breaches in Healthcare.gov. Not the $600 million the Feds have spent advertising ObamaCare while they failed to organize or build it in the first place. Because, hey, how about that Christie and his traffic jam, and also maybe $2 million in Sandy funds that were spent advertising the Jersey shore prior to the summer season.

So, we take our consolations and our yucks where we can. The Daily Show thought this was the perfect time to lampoon The Five on Fox News Channel. News judgment aside, the piece is genuinely funny.

As is Ann Coulter’s contribution from the right hand side of the aisle. MSNBC’s Ed Schultz boasted that Republicans were afraid to debate him. Coulter tweeted him, “Invite me on your show, you lying pussy.” She’s been after Maddow and the MSNBC toads generally to bring her on air for a couple of years. Guess who the scaredy cats are.

It feels like something truly dire is about to happen. I get these feelings from time to time. I was going to title this post ‘Dread.’ But I didn’t.

Best I can do.

*For those too young to remember, this:

I referenced some remarks by Evan Sayet at the old Instapunk site. (Probably not the tour de force he’s taking bows for here. Which is likely this.) Second time in a couple of days that the Baby Boomers have come up on the media horizon. First was P.J. O’Rourke, who has a new book out about them. Second was the speech above.

Sayet actually recapitulated the philosophy of Harry from The Boomer Bible of the lib necessity of not thinking about anything at all. Since I identified this phenomenon more than 15 years before he did, I’m feeling vindicated. If you want proof, go to the book of Willie. And maybe the latter part of the book of Swarthmorons. Sayet has it right. But I got there first.

Why the new emphasis on Boomers? This year, the youngest of them turn 50. And as O’Rourke pointed out, they’re the last generation that still reads books. If this gives anybody any ideas, I’d be pleased to hear them.

If you’re not yet outraged about the federal Common Core curriculum, it’s time you were.

Sure we’re charmed. But writers and directors? Shakespeare had his own problems, but resenting the award academies wasn’t one of them.

It’s not sexism. It’s not a mystery. As all smart women will tell you, women are mostly not as interesting as men. The only interesting women are the women who understand how interesting men are. These are women who wouldn’t try to make a movie starring Meryl Streep. But that’s what Hollywood women are compelled to do. Even though Meryl Streep is the crashing bore to end all crashing bores, she’s the feminist unicorn. A golden icon that doesn’t actually exist. In talent terms, I mean. Ask any women you actually talk to. All men would pick Helen Mirren, who just couldn’t wait to be naked in front of a camera. Besides being such a great actress and a Dame and all. Absolutely nobody wants to see Meryl Streep naked. The same way nobody wants to see Lena Dunham naked. I rest my case.

Oh forget it. I never said anything. Noth-Thing. I know Noth-Thing.

Words Fail. Senses overload. Angels.

At 3:30 this afternoon, Notre Dame will play Navy again. Snore.

What’s not a snore is that the Blue Angels will make their first return to duty since the sequester.

Hallelujah. We’ve seen the Blue Angels. They’re magnificent.

We heard the takeoff. It sounded like the naval guns beginning the bombardment of Normandy on D-Day. But still no sign of those blue and yellow machines we had seen lined up on the tarmac. “They can’t do all their maneuvers ten feet off the runway,” I offered lamely. “Of course not,” said Mrs InstaPunk.

By now the sound was firing at us from, seemingly, all points of the compass. We, and a few others camped pathetically in the parking lot, craned our heads in every direction. Where were they? Where was the sound coming from?

Then I saw them. Four planes climbing straight up to the north. At our distance from them, there was no separation among the triangular shapes. Each wingpoint was welded to another, and the ascending formation was but a single unit through which you could see small triangles of sky. Behind us a shattering engine scream announced the arrival of a fifth plane, and a sixth, returning to the airfield from the south at very low altitude. They disappeared, and apparently parted company, behind the hangars that blocked our view west, but after their exhaust blasts diverged, I suddenly saw them through a wide gap between the two biggest hangars — passing each other in opposing directions nearly six inches apart just a couple hundred feet over the runway. “There!” I shouted. “Jesus.”

There were seven planes in all, but it seemed like more. We got the feeling of being at the epicenter of a vast virtual armillary sphere, around which various combinations of planes were orbiting in all possible directions, in impossibly tight formations, to the limit of the invisible tether that bound them, until the gravity of the center pulled them back together at the reckless velocity of a brand new universe. When they converged and flew past one another, the colliding onslaught of sound resembled Stephen Hawking’s version of the Big Bang, an incipient mega-explosion that doesn’t ever quite happen because you can never get closer than a trillionth of a second to the birth of physics.

“We can go now,” announced Mrs. InstaPunk. “I’ve seen the Blue Angels.”

So we started the car and began the drive back home.

That should be the end of it. But it isn’t. When you leave the ballgame or the concert, you’re almost immediately outside the action and whatever you hear of it is muted, diminished, and subsiding. When you leave the epicenter of a Blue Angels performance, you are merely plotting the direction of subsequent, incredibly immediate encounters.

We hadn’t thought of that. But the residents of Millville and the surrounding rural areas had. We reached the heavily wooded main road that would lead us back home, and the first clearing we came to was lined on both sides by cars, pickup trucks, motorcycles, lawn chairs, blankets and dozens of people. We followed the direction of their upturned faces, and here came the Blue Angels again, four planes locked together as one, slowly rotating as they shivered the pine trees en route.

“Should I pull over?” I asked. “They’ve obviously got the perfect spot here to watch from. I don’t want you to miss anything.”

“No. Keep going. It’s okay.”

We still hadn’t gotten it. Nobody had to go to the air show to experience the power and majesty of the Blue Angels. As we proceeded down what I’d always known as a back country road, every gap in the trees, every crossroad was jammed with cars, bikes, and people. Where there were houses, there were crowds, and the American flags flew, and the Blue Angels obliged by flying past and back again, showering us with waves of sound that rattled windows and rippled the wading pools.

Through one stretch of pure woods, we experienced a flyover so low that both of us ducked inside the car. The sound of the plane overhead was like a a yard of duct tape being ripped off your naked eardrums. Farther on, more people, more cars, more flags, the occasional, helplessly grinning state trooper guarding an intersection, and oddly unhurried traffic away from the show. I drove just under 50 and was astonished that an old biker who could have been Paul Teutle, Sr, made no effort to pass. When he finally turned off, I tossed him a wave, and he gave me a nod.

So I’m giving you a nod now. Watch the game and hope NBC has the wit to give us a glimpse at least of the angels in navy blue.