…when you realize your WordPress theme is so helpful that it publishes private admin notes for all to read. Followed by the part where you realize those notes are google searchable.
Followed by the part where you find out somebody did a google search. And DID find the notes. Plus they found some other things one throws out in the Universe, never expecting them to find their way home.

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Peter Garrett‘s new solo album A Version of Nowis not my favorite. The music sounds a bit like the Oils. At least the sedated Breathe/Capricornia Oils. So there was at least some recognition, some comfort, like my once cool Chuck Taylors that are now retired from public use.

The lyrics are where the train tracks hit the proverbial quicksand. WTF, Pete. Truthfully, you were never that subtle in the Oils or particularly lyrical with your – uh – lyrics.

if I say so. Myself
if I, myself, do say so. Myself.

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the spontaneous beer free (so far) August has been great, but not without its issues. Coors N/A is like quitting smoking, in terms of its you ate too much cheese and no fiber effect. Then there’s the dreams. Last night’s triple feature”

  • sharks in Michigan. Yes, stupidly taunting them was involved. Fortunately, there was a scene change before things went all sharkquake vs. Megadethsharknadocalypse.
  • Never even breath on a classic car in an unlikely impromptu car show at a small Gothic church in Chicago. One of them will roll away. The guy you ride with to chase it down is actually some sort of mobster. He would rather sink his car in the lake with you in it than let you live. Not fun.
  • But you escape and go home – only to discover uncollected mail for someone in a former life is not stacking up at my house. and so are unaccounted for dishes. And wait@ WTF are these keys doing here? That life is long gone and over, but in the day, she never went anywhere without her keys.  Apprehensive search of the house ensues. The cupboards are clear. But not the third bedroom. We’re now living in Goldilocks land.

A million years ago, I had young kids, a Jeep, a wife who sorta loathed me and a job that bored me. And cable internet and a digital camera and a President that I kind of ranted about constantly. And stories. Lots and lots of stories. Usually stupid, mundane things.

I wanted a soapbox to tell my truths. Even if they were actually lies, or mostly imaginary. The challenge was to make them amusing to my audience. This was kind of a low bar, since my “audience,” such as it was, was myself and a couple of friend/contributors.

So how to dump this maelstrom of oh f*** I’m 40, but I’ve got all these THINGS to say on an unsuspecting internet? This was 2004. No smartphones, no Facebook. The Twitters had not been invented.

But there were these things called “blogs.” God, what a stupid name. I didn’t want a “blog.” I wasn’t a “blogger.” I wanted a “website” where I could post things in serial fashion as I thought of them, augmented by pictures and video.* [Ed.: That is the very definition of a blog, genius.]

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– Me, after doing the due diligence a little late.

Evidently, I don’t get to both express myself freely and do so without risking some sort of “your self-deprecating jokes are hurtful to me” response, even though there’s no names and no point about anyone else. There’s gotta be a Costanza for this moment of Zen.

George Costanza Fail

Nah, too meta.

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