Hooted off Eschaton
Online humiliation is sublimnity itself. You go make a big, bad blog to jack yourself up, then they come and pull you all down. All manner of delicious insults, delivered by the chalkiest minds this snarky generation can assemble. Let's call them Black's sheep. Baa, ram, ewe. I got sheep dipped over there, marked as a Judas for wondering if anyone, besides John Edwards and myself, were slightlyoffended by Amanda Marcotte's description of the insemination of Our Lord into his Holy Mother. Atrios, the host over there is a really, really busy blogger, who posts mostly stuff for others to comment upon, and then unaccountably, hasn't time to read them. Feet of clay?...Well, let's just say he's sort of perverse about the people who visit by his blog there. I could see a breakfast cereal spin-off, Frosted Atri-o's, that sort of thing. He just needs the money, they all do.
While Duncie comments frequently, he won't respond to any communication through that channel, from me that is. But then faithful readers of this blog know that Dr. Black never answered any e-mail I ever sent him, not one. Formal stuff, too. Hello, my name is Matt, love your blog, how about a cite? Nothing. I figured he's hip to me from wayback when and knows better. My version of the benefit of the doubt, or maybe he's read my blog? The nutssac. Still, the time I spent casting pearls before mutton over there could cost me in the long run, since the guy turned out to be be a bigot with a very muddled metaphysic, that could possibly include some anti-catholicism, but is either too busy to deny it, or unaware of any questions having been raised about it, not on Eschaton, anyhow. It figures. I end up the bad guy, as per. So it's back to trolling the blogroll for me.
First stop; TBogg, where I have a common link with my past in the photo he has of himself perched gracefully atop a poor swaybacked pony. I had that same photo of myself in identical cowboy costume astride a very similar horse. It's lost now. I was nine, back in the USA, California, Long Beach, girls, surfing, skating, dancing to the Heatwave, binary numbers. I was growing up fast under that hot, blue, hazy sky after two years in Nippon. It was the endless summer of 1963 that was burned into my memory, back to school at St. Lucy's, the weather refused to break, and the smog grew thick in November, when the miasma came, and the doubt, the first chill came on the twenty-second, a killing frost, and then the east wind came from out of Texas, blowing a hard westerly course on the trade winds all the way back to Southeast Asia and the end of dreams of empire.
 Pony boy in winter.
9:21:50 AM 
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