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.

I DO pay attention. I do SEE you.

Can’t always respond to individual comments. Too busy being distracted by my own attempts to distract myself from everything current. So consider this a catchup.

Thanks to Lake. His “randomized” Youtube of my night of searching for love songs makes it look more complete and planned than it was. There’s a rhythm to his playlist I can’t explain even to myself. There are true loves and happy loves and tragic loves and unrequited loves and operatic loves and romantic loves and amazingly lyrical loves and raw, aching loves that break every piece of your heart. Nothing I planned. I combined songs I knew that mean something to me personally with songs culled from a generic search to represent, I hoped, the commonality of romantic love around the globe. One thing that might unite us all even in the worst of times. Lake made it seem like a whole with groupings and transitions and breaks that work. I urge everyone to take a look.

Lake’s Playlist.

[Link not functional. Working on it. Go to post called Couldn’t Sleep. See Lake’s comment.]

Thanks to Ron. He’s not the only one who peeled off from the preferred pathway to law school back in the day. He got closer than I did to signing up, but then I set a record for weakest application essays to the three law schools I applied to. I’d been aimed at that hell from earliest childhood and I complied in name only. Can’t even remember the three, except that Georgetown was politely uninterested. What I do remember is that when I was a business consultant, I frequently sat with lawyers on planes. I always asked how happy they were with their careers. To a man, they were miserable. Since I’m not miserable, I count that a win.

Thanks to Tim. The only one who had the balls to respond to my politically incorrect post about new gay rules. I suspect a lot of other people are quivering in their foxholes on this subject. Congratulations.

Thanks to Suds46. Highlighting individual songs makes people more likely to listen. You are a key part of the provenance of my list. I am grateful.

And, regrettably…

Thanks to No One. No one can suck it up enough to root for Mylie Cyrus, who has a talent that has been used against her, to ensnare her in bad behaviors and situations her own parents should have protected her from. I stand by what I said.

P.S. Somebody could have liked the Stones concert I posted. It only takes one of you to make me feel a wink has been returned. I always have an ulterior motive. It isn’t interesting that Lady Gaga wanted to be on stage with a bunch of seventy year old rockers who can still outdraw every Top 40 star on the map? No?

Then the hellwitcha. Probably doesn’t matter, either, that this is the only concert where you’ll ever see Jagger and Springsteen together. Not worthy of remark by ANYBODY. Not even my wife. Gift blown off. Incidentally, Jagger’s better. Nothing I can do about the fact you don’t follow links. Why TBB isn’t the best selling book in history. (Also some Stones history on display. Jagger introduced Mick Taylor and the other Stones embraced him. Jagger bumped past him as if he wasn’t there.) Why Jagger is the one star who hasn’t been to rehab. CEO of the greatest rock franchise ever. Ruthless and miraculously energetic. Maybe he knows something all the ones who have died imitating him don’t. It is better to lead than to follow.

Just kidding. The lack of cultural context and sense of humor is something I’m long used to. Already dialed in. I know you’re a very very serious lot. And I work every day at becoming more solemn, as befits my great age.