There comes a point in the life of every Webmaster when s/he wonders out loud, "Why am I doing this?" In my case, it was about the third day this site was up. And while it has been relatively well-received during the four years of its existence, by which is meant that no one has sent me any live explosives just yet, the possibility of stagnation constantly lurks and occasionally even looms.
What to do? I thought it over for less time than I probably should have, and decided that what dustbury.com was lacking (apart from personality, tastefulness, and utility, but that's another story) was a sense of immediacy. Pages got updated when I got around to them; some things got lost in the shuffle. And while I have no problem blaming some of this on the vagaries of the workplaceat best, long hours make for short tempersat least one of the tailbones needing a suitable kick was my own.
Thus, Version 7 (you're soaking in it) introduces my Sort Of Blog, a way for me to get some stuff on the table without regard to the semi-regular Vent schedule or the ongoing necessity to update the other sections. Most of the existing pages will continue as before, though minor design changes will be forthcoming here and there, and the usual sporadic updates will continue to take place, as the saying goes, When I Get Around To Them.
I am quite aware that most people who happen onto this site aren't here because they're fans of my particular brand of bilge. They've come by way of your favorite portal in search of links to their favorite tunes, or to find out if there's anything to that World Currency Cartel stuff, or to catch a glimpse of that which can't be seen. Fair enough. I never believed for more than a New York minute that my own story was any different from, or any more enlightening than, the 7,999,999 others in the Naked City. But dammit, this is my site, and my X number of dollars a year; it ought to reflect at least as much of me as it does Lesley Gore or Sue Storm. And if this means I have to move my heart farther along my sleeve, so be it.
Over the years, three analysts have tried and mostly failed to make a dent in my mass of neuroses, but I still consider the experience part of the learning process, and one of the things I've learned is that one ought not to take dreams too seriouslywhich, given the general dark tone of most of my dreams, is probably essential to maintaining some semblance of sanity. No way can I subscribe to the theory that, as David Cassidy might have said, "dreams are nothin' more than wishes." Some of these things I wouldn't wish on anyone. (Well, maybe on J. C. Watts.)
Still, there has to be some reasonoverwork? trying to chintz out on the clothing budget? too much basil in the spaghetti sauce?why my slumbering mental processes would put together a semi-coherent narrative about how my appearance in a bathrobe in a major communications facility would wind up motivating the national intelligence community to form a special division with operatives for whom transvestism is the mildest of kinks. Not to mention my date with Regis Philbin.
Those who know me will point to two actual facts:
Contradictory premises at the very core of it all. Still, reconciling contradictions is part of everyday life, so it's probably no wonder I could come up with something that makes as little sense as this. What I want to know is how come I can work up a good linear storyline when I'm asleep, but while I'm awake, I can't make the slightest dent in the blankness of the screen?
Oh, and Reege? A perfect gentleman.
Well, this has been a strange sort of day.
First thing, Molly, my lately-too-often-beleagured car, came down with a bad case of the stalls, which only partially cleared up once she realized she was on her way to a service shop. As is my usual custom, I rented temporary wheels, and this time the agency came up with a 2000 Chevrolet Malibu in Betty Crocker Frosting White, possibly the very car that got GM denounced by wags as "Generic Motors"; stenciling "CAR" on its doors wouldn't be much of a reach. If Chevy trucks are, as the ads say, "like a rock," this mid-size Malibu is a packet of gravel. Over the lumpy concrete and randomly-located expansion joints of the Belle Isle Bridge at a modest 55 mph, it bounds and lurches like a kangaroo on diuretics. I'm starting to see why the General's market share is going into the old porcelain facility.
Then came a call from the estimable (and pseudonymous) Nova Hotsex. If I've learned anything in my quarter-century in Oklahoma, it's that you do not blow off calls from oil-industry insiders, especially oil-industry insiders with killer legs. Ms H was happy to inform me that my analysis of gas prices, while it correctly identified some infrastructure problems, left off a major issuea pipeline from the Atlantic coast to the Midwest apparently broke last year somewhere in deepest Ohio, and repairs are unfinished. In fact, they're unbegun. The need to transport all this stuff by truck is making a bad situation far worse. When will the supertube be fixed? Not even Nova knows.
Rain again. This makes seven days out of the last nine. I'm not prone to seeing myself as a victim of seasonal affective disorder, but I