Sunday, December 15, 2019

Last week I had considered a humorous fisking of some comments from Greta's infamous meltdown in September, along with a bit of Jason Momoa's brief speech given a short time later to some UN group. However, after re-reading their comments, I realized a couple things. First, I really wasn't interested in rehashing either the accusatory whimpering of a pampered teen or the somewhat less dramatic--read transcendentally boring--rant of an overpaid actor/activist. Second, I imagined that anything I might say about it would be even less interesting than the original remarks.

That was last week. I didn't write anything last week because I was under attack--not from activists who were threatening to place me against the wall, but from invisible invaders. Obviously, I had gone out without my tin foil hat (check out the link and read the reviews) in a weak moment and was paying the price. Actually, I think it's merely a cold. I detected the presence of the tiny covert ops on Friday. They had not done enough damage to trouble me at the Friday night performance of the radio show. By Saturday morning the operatives had openly declared their war and had thrown wide the gates for their allies. I fought them off long enough to join some friends in helping another friend load her U-haul, and then I returned home to marshal my forces against the assault. I did most of the marshaling from a reclined position while I stocked myself with fluids, with frequent breaks to attempt clandestine naps (all of which failed) or to challenge my reflexes with a television remote control. 

Although my fluid stockpiling and all-out counter attack naps prevented me from succumbing completely to the invaders, I was nevertheless greatly weakened when it came time for the Saturday night radio show performance. I made it through, barely. A couple times I stood at the mic with a throat so dry that I suspected desert sand might fall from my lips. Each time I was pleasantly surprised to discover words in the appropriate character voice spilling out instead of a stream of Saharan sands. The show was a tremendous success in spite of my association with the other, more talented performers. I am sad to say that I was too ill to attend the after-party. I returned home for more fluids and no-quarter-sleep-sorties.

I stumbled through the week with a voice which seemed to issue from Malebolge, the eighth circle of the Inferno. Every time I spoke with the clerks with whom I deal frequently, they commented upon how terrible I sounded. So at least it kept the derogatory commentary confined to a single topic.

I did do a little bit of writing on Book 3 as I'm currently calling it. I think most of what I wrote was passable, but I did have to go back later to insert details that I had forgotten. I guess that's what I get for writing with half my brain trying to repel boarders.

I did finish a week or so ago, The Sons of Brabant, by Michael Bolan. 

I would like to post an interview with the author if I'm ever able to contact him. He had an author web page but it doesn't seem to be functioning at present. The book is available for free on Amazon.

I also finished The Two Towers. I picked up a few free books: Heroes Wanted, an anthology, as well as Paradise Lost, and The Faerie Queen for future reading. 

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