Twenty-twenty. The year that just kept on giving and giving and saying “open wider!” and shoving more shit in. Information, disinformation, bad news, bad opinion, hot takes, and impressive flameouts—it was a regular shit-giving fountain. But, just like it’s easy to ignore the one compliment in the comments and…
Twenty-twenty. The year when hugging was outlawed, and I may have started talking a lot to my fern. What’s that you say, Fergus? Oh, you don’t like today’s record. Right, back in the cupboard. Please note for the record that Fergus the Fern has been purged from the voter…
Twenty-twenty. The year when live music stage dived into a pit filled with heaving, hot bodies, and died, after which we were all forced to join a cloud crowd to watch musicians do their shit. YouTube sessions and Instagram LIVEs from people’s living rooms and look there, another sliver…
I rode 100 centuries this year. Does that make me a cuckoo?
With twitching talons, the eagle comes, soaring high on private updrafts to wheel lazy circles across the ancestry of our dreams. Scanning the world unfurled far below for pinpoints of weakness, it traps the landscape sewn with…