Blooger IS fucked-up, this from reddit last evening:
And others have confirmed via email, thank you. Glad that I didn't break mine, capable though I am even when I've made no attempt to change a thing about the blog except add more people to the blogrolls to make my daily rounds easier and more fulfilling. I did, in a pathetically panicky effort to fix the current fuck-up I knew was blooger's fault and not mine, delete the two cemetery blogrolls, many of those had been dead more than a decade, thinking if any rss codes are constipating the blogrolls it'd be these. If you are still reading here and know your dead blog was interned in the Blogrolls of the Dead and you Rise again to bloglife please let me know, I'll add you to the blogrolls where you will not show up until blooger fixes the feed problem and I bet you unlimited digital pints blooger won't fix the feed problem. Wait, there's new Arab Strap?
Google sheets and forms in my work life and real life sketchy now too, it's not just blooger. Meanwhile, the director of the FBI is defending the hiring of ICE agents with a known history of bestiality while the hick-larping GOP senator from Louisiana demands to know if the animals (whether the dogs were the fucked or the fucker or both is not stated) were disqualified if the agents weren't. Patel assures hick-larper the doggos are good boys. Where I would type the preceding sentence if blooger dies I haven't yet considered beyond knowing it will not be substack and I really don't want to teach myself wordpress though I have an account - a few of you have clicked through to it when I embedded links in the grid - and could replace this blog there. Does wordpress even have blogrolls much less blogrolls that use a feed to self-update? Grids will continue for now, there's a workaround until blooger dies, grids help me process and cope, I do them for me. Have some old Arab Strap
The blogrolls are dead or at least comatose. Not saying that as a result my grids of anger will cease, not saying I'll interpret this as an omen to disengage and quit, am saying fine clustermetaphorfucks abound, the interconnectivity between the multitude too negatively serendipitous (serendipity works to kill as well as chill, yo), too many of them not to be a sign of too many somethings. Work contributes this time of year, but a dark patch be here, and (monologue in (and is) today's grid, cobbled before the blogroll kill-off) this is the first medicine I take to try and brighten
“We, we children, why our lives are circumscribed, circumferential;
Close, too close to the center, we are haunted by perimeters And our lives seem to go in and out, in and out all the time, As though yours were diagonal, vertical, shallow, chopped off
At the root like the voice of the famous gadfly: ‘Oh! Aho!’ it Sits in the middle of the roadway. That’s it. Worry and brown desk Stain it by infusion. There aren’t enough tags at the end, And the grove is blind, blossoming, but we are too porous to hear it.
It’s like watching a movie of a nightmare, the many episodes That defuse the thrust of what comes to us. The girl who juggled Indian clubs Belongs again to the paper space that backs the black Curtain, as if there were a reason to have paid for these seats.
Tomorrow you’ll be walking in a white park. Our interests Are too close for us to see. There seems to be no Necessity for it, yet in walking, we too, around, and all around We’ll come to one, where the street crosses your name, and feet run up it.”
Currently on chrome and firefox on both windows on my work PC and chrome on my personal chromebook this blog's blogrolls and feeds are broken and disordered and in a strange font and clicking on a site brings up nothing but code so (fuck me) all the links in the grid of anger are at least a day old, fine metaphors abound, enshittification-wise, today's mood the same as yesterday's the same as tomorrow's:
I'm trying to be cold but too-hot wins. Work bloweth now also, my busiest hardest month of the year, the month when my two core responsibilities peak, and here, as in everywhere, the assholiest people are assholier than ever. You know, shitlords are tuning us to be meaner angrier, more selfish, less kind, it's part of their extermination plan for us, to make us so busy being angry and assholes to each other so we are less assholes to them while they openly endeavor to kill us. It works: look at my grids of anger. You do know that shitlords think you are capable of enjoyable evil equal to them? It's their magic power. I was briefly saved yesterday when I heard this song on Daniel's show, I love Lon Fin Killie but I love Bows more and the song below the grid and this song especially
Everyone's trying to figure out where to go next. California was good until some of it was swept into a furnace, the rest suspended next to a target over a carnival dunk tank. Nothing is good forever, not even a thing of beauty, no matter what Keats said about joy in that really long poem I could never finish. Chocolate was good, especially dark, now they've found cadmium and lead. Eggs were cheap, then pricey, then astronomical, as in probably cheaper on Mars where no one wants to go except one megarich clodpole. New Orleans was good but then it snowed in New Orleans and those levees won't last forever, either. Today the White House announced reality was canceled once again, maybe to be reinstated when the Styx freezes over. I spent the day alone in my friend's house in the Arizona desert. Wandering from room to room, asking the mountains, Are you my mother? I wonder where she went after hospice care, if she joined the few souls flitting from that armless saguaro to the dying mesquite tree by my friend's pretty pool she never swims in, fluffing their wings as they settle and coo. Detroit is supposed to be good in fifty years but I'll be dead then and if I lived there now, I might want to be dead. Everyone wants to breathe but it's getting more difficult, all those boots crushing everyone's tracheas, all those trolls under the bridges trying to devour us as we bleat our alarm. Baaa! I'm bleating now. The mountains reassure me but the sun's going down. Soon I'll be left with nothing but stars, some of them fake, space filling with satellites while the blazing bodies drift farther away and the moon trails hopelessly after them, crying for love.
I am pleased to reaffirm I'm not the drooling fanboy I hope I never will be so I'm disappointed but not surprised I'm underwhelmed by the new Lambchop, as good as it is it hasn't saved me, I wanted it to, you can vouch, my fault for wanting another Bible. < (listen gratis once)> Punching the Clown gets better with each listen to the songs I didn't hear until last Friday but my favorite songs had already been pre-released. Unslayed, me, that's my complaint. Only me can save fucking me. Fine metaphors abound
AT FIRST I THOUGHT I WOULDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT
but then I thought keeping quiet about it might appear even ruder. At first I thought I had died and gone to heaven but that scapegrace the unruly sun informed me otherwise.
I am in my heavyset pants and find this occupation of beekeeping charming though I have yet to meet my first bee. We don't know if I get to keep the hat and veil.
"Too hot," he said: "Too hot for everything!" He so caring, so mundane. "...to have you on board." Bulgarian choirs everywhere stood up and sang the song of the rent. It was lovely. Now I shall take a short vacation, proof that I am needed here. Nobody wants my two cents
anymore, I believe. To some it was like skating in summer. A small turret perched over the lake. It exploded. That's the way I feel about people taking me out to some nice repast, and afterwards you go home and go over everything that was stated. I prefer flowers and breathing.
