Miscellany ala James Joyce

… or stream of consciousness narrative in lieu of lists of links

The browsers are crowded. Thick with links. Bursting with information. But what to do with it all, dear readers? What to do? When the Internet tells one that Hua Hin, Thailand is an ideal ex-pat haven, but Honduras aims to lure us with private cities, where does one turn? We are wanted everywhere at the same time we are welcome nowhere.

And I don’t mean merely where does one take one’s weary body when geography beckons. I mean, what does one do when swept away on the bit, byte, bazillion web site flow of information? What, for example, is one to make of this?

Is it a good thing or a bad thing that, after lo these many years of the security state an 82-year-old nun and conspirators can waltz into the “Fort Knox of uranium storage” then have to hang around waiting for “security” to notice them? Personally, I’m fond of the notion. It has panache. But one expects … well, better theater from one’s security theater. Aging nuns shouldn’t have to provide all the entertainment.

And why is there no rest for the weary? Why can’t even a retired drug dog take a break from busting people these days?

God knows cops are cops are no friends to dogs. And the world becomes stranger as the cops spin and spin.

Personally I think the dogs of the world should rise up on their strong legs, turn on the cops of the world and do some serious shin chewing, at the very least. Not help them bust innocent (though obviously not very bright) dopers. Dogs, dogs, your loyalty is admirable, but so misplaced! Forget evil cops! Go dance with dolphins!

And cops, o cops, o why assault our senses so? Hast thou forgotten that thou art all nothing but Barney Fife’s at heart?

And we? Are we any better off than poor canine slaves? We seek anonymity, but foil ourselves time and again. Or, passively, we get foiled. Or some other word beginning with “F.” We may as well be as bold as bold Captain GATSO, confronting authority where it lives. Which, as it happens, is in a narrow little box.

Are things really “different this time,” as hopeful bubblistas like to claim? Well, yes. But not in a good way.

We have gone mad, mad, mad. In a world full of amazing goodness and astounding, heroic feats of self-organization we focus on men and women whose handlers have to tell them what they think. Or don’t think.

And we call them leaders.

We have pseudo insurance forced upon us by governments and call genuine insurance a form of nuttery.

We cry that our religion is being suppressed when what we mean is that we want to suppress somebody else’s.

And we, The Others, cry, “What do you mean ‘we,’ White Man?” My conscience is clear — and so now are my browser tabs.

—–

No, I haven’t lost my mind. I just figured I’d see if I could clear all my tabs, in order, and make sense of them all. So I failed. Shrug. We all do sometimes. We writers just get the chance to fail more publicly than most.

I also owe quite a few hat tips for links above, but please pardon me; I’ve totally lost track.