Most of us are not eager to live in an apocalyptic wasteland. I won’t risk a Donald Trump presidency by sitting out an election in my cozy, high tower of impractical ideology.
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All I’m really writing to say here is that I’m still alive, I’m bound and determined to find a way to reach those ancient goals of mine, and for the first time in ages I finally feel like I’m starting to get some traction.
This is probably just a way-point. If I’m as busy as I expect to be from here on out, conceits like this web site won’t matter much. Here’s to new adventures. And on we go.
I just got my genealogy database back online. I’d been putting it off for ages. There’s always so many other more important things to do. But yesterday was the day. My uncle, Allen Lovelace, died on Sunday. I owed it to him to mark his passing.
Yup. A young woman took a photo of David Gilmour on the beach, and posted it to Instagram as her “photo of a random man & his dog”.
I’m cautious from past experience, but overall I’m easing into a new year with a sense of hope and determination. Now that New Year’s is out of the way, I can get on with it. Let’s see what’s around the corner.
I won’t be shedding any tears over Lemmy Kilmister. He was a hard-drinking, hard-living Rock & Roll animal who probably lived well past his natural expiration date. He wasn’t a particularly gifted lyricist, but he had a wry sense of humor that always crept in Motorhead songs.
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