There's a joke somewhere here. I should hang out more with people I want to hang out with, after the self-imposed exile is over.
Karl ove is a damn good writer. Note to self: combine karl ove and pratchett to form a super proto awesome writerly being. Even rushdie, sans the self-seriousness.
No one reminds one of anyone anymore. There are good things waiting to happen. Boston is a gross cold freezing tundra hellish landscape that one hopes can be avoided at all points in the future. Atlanta would be nice. Hotlanta, they're calling it these days.
Reader, the writer has become unhinged as of late. Geographically, of course. Places don't mean what they used to, and things seem to be changing at such rapid pace... it's either a really good time to get a leg up, or the perfect time to make a fool of oneself.
This I will repeat: there's a revolution brewing, in the hearts and minds of people, among the nursery school teachers to those skipping classes in high schools, to doctors and engineers. I know, I've heard them whisper, complain, and throw hands and give up. No one seems to be able to see it. The power it would unleash would be something worth watching. One has been placed with the foresight, and resources perhaps, to nudge things in just the right direction. Just not the courage, or the time. We will see how things go.
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