So, here we are. Hope you like the look of it, please update your bookmarks accordingly.
I had an OK christmas holiday. It was good to see everyone! Lots of people have kids, now, and it made me a little sad when nobody took my proposal to hook a bunch of them together to make one big one all that seriously.
I had to drive around a lot, too, and I learned that “support” ribbons have supplanted “baby on board” signs as your reliable indicator that the person behind the wheel is a mental defective. Be warned, public.
So happy new year. Let’s get right into it.
Over the next few days, I’m going to make broad generalizations here about a sad state of affairs, which could pass for a bold prediction if you peered at it just so and maybe crossed your eyes a little. In much the same vein if you could picture a man on a ski hill listening to a deafening rumble that might be an oncoming avalanche, he might by a similar metric boldly predict that things will be going downhill soon. Because it might be an avalanche, you see. But he is also a man on a ski hill, a point I can’t emphasize enough and, since it’s my strained example and you’re not the boss of me, I’ll emphasize just that much more. So I’m going abuse a tiny smattering of carefully picked examples, inflate them to cartoonishly distorted proportion and bind them tightly together with thin strands of poorly-scoped narrative. And then I will parade around with them joyously in hand, like some habromaniac economic savant chortling at his fistful of black balloons.
Which is all to say I’m going to be cherrypicking and fearmongering. As literary techniques go this is somewhere between wildly unoriginal and fantastically self-absorbed, but you won’t even notice, because my technique is an arsenal; for example, if I describe it as “walking a tightrope between” wildly unoriginal and fantastically self-absorbed that will cover it all over with a gloss of the risque, an intriguing sheen of the dangeresque so smooth your attention span will glide past on oiled bearings.
I can guarantee you that this is just one of the narcissism-obscuring clubs in my bag, though I’m not sure what sort of shadowy menace stalks the self-deluded novice highwire acts of the world; gravity isn’t known for its subtlety and inflated egos never seem to float gently to earth. Nevertheless, we press on: in tonight’s program, the roles of treacherous escarpment and rock-strewn abyss will be played by a two-foot drop and blue foamy mattress which has, just for the delicate princesses among you, a pea in it somewhere.