A clay envelope or hollow ball, typically with seal impressions or writing on its outside indicating its contents.
Someone, somewhere, recently pointed out that you don’t see the sainted Limbaugh’s favorite insult, “feminazi,” being tossed about with quite such abandon anymore, now that the right’s decided maybe the Nazis had a point.
That’s the sort of observation that’ll stick in your craw, if you let it.
I’m caramelizing (well, roasting) cabbage tonight, and if I were still on Twitter, I’d needle Keguro about it. Or roast him. I mean. You know what I mean.
This is mostly what has occupied my mind, mostly, of late: high-minded despair; quotidian satisfaction. On the one hand, there’s strong evidence a not insignificant number of Supreme Court justices want to do away with Gideon, and thus the very basis of my job; on the other, this new technique of cooking the noodles with the milk has kicked my macaroni and cheese to the next fucking level, let me tell you. —The whipsaw, ever and always.
I mean, anyway. That’s how I am. How are you?
The cabbage was delicious, by the way.
So forgive me, I guess, is the basic point, if I go on about what I’ve been doing over there, but it’s what I’ve been doing: the entire Trump administration, I managed to write six installments; in this, so far, the first year of the Biden interregnum, I’ve (just about) written five alone. That, such as it is, isn’t nothing. —And so.
Anyway. That’s how I’ve been. How you doin’?
