it can’t happen here

Longtime wreaders have probably noticed a change or two around these parts.  It used to be impossible to swing a cat without hitting at least one disgruntled tumbleweed, bumbling across some sepia Western setpiece and muttering irritably, “Really I’m a people person.  This is the wrong career for me.”

Times have changed.  Now even my alarm clock is the size of an iPod, and my iPod is the size of an otter’s eyelid.  Every night I slide my alarm clock into the toaster that I keep plugged in next to my bed, push down on the arm, and eight hours later it pops up with a ding and I get up and spread jelly on it, gingerly bouncing it from hand to hand and emitting a series of burned-sounding oohs and yips forever destined to be my first words of each newly hatched day.

Why am I not surprised?  I grandfathered myself out of the clauset and into the frying caramazov breeders.  I dedicated the best back of my life to the pursuit of pressed coal laminate designer furniture and daintily carved wooden hats beset with carousel horses and realtime spywave blocking protocols, and for what?  Stockhausen serves, zero to zero…imperialism returns, a quick volley ensues, score now stands at fifteen-love, with imperialism looking the clear favorite, at least to this commentator.  Huge swaths of sod are upturned like the noses of the ruling elite.  The Sity of Shicago is a sinking ship in reverse, each section breaking free as its structural integrity is lost, wrenching unhappily up from street level to expose the cement molars sagging from the undersides of the sidewalks, and letting out a quiet simultaneous hoot as gravity and cohesion get done over by entropy and the whole shitstorm hurtles apart in every direction.  Weblogs are for people with webbed feet primarily, and carnival barkers, and statesmen.