About - Now with More Bacon

In a word, I am a choosey beggar.

I have blogged under a pseudonym or two since early in the 21st century because the witness protection program rejected my application for compassionate relocation based on my insistence that I know some serious shit. Shit that only I know will die when I die. So I’m trying to pass some of the good shit along before I go.

My self-esteem is immeasurable, unless your scale measures in negative numbers, although I am clearly smarter than slightly half the people in the world. And yet, I am a powerful stupid magnet. I have a bad heart and an anger management problem and a well informed understanding of the relationship between the two.

I can leap to conclusions over tall buildings in a single bound. I have opinions. Sometimes they change in whimsical ways. I took Uber to the ER on the night before my 69th birthday, and was admitted just after midnight with a small stroke, so I’m up to date on whimsy.

You can’t spell my name without bacon, if you misspell bacon.

I have never succeeded at committing murder, despite having attempted to make the perfect appletini on more than one occasion. My murder slash suicide weapon of choice would be propylene glycol in an appletini because I lost the morphine that hospice forgot to collect in 2015.

I try to avoid politics unless it veers into the realm of circus-peanut-candy-orange self-parody.  I intend to change no minds, because like I said, I’m smarter than a majority of humans. The OED definition of trumpery explains a lot about 2016 in America.

In the previous century, I graduated first in my law school class and passed the California bar on the first shot in a year when the pass rate was 44%. The most important things I learned in law school are that people are often unjustly enriched; and that law books rarely have pictures.

Long enough ago that I have almost processed the inevitable trauma of being a bureaucrat with a brain, I retired as the best-paid typist at Research-O-Rama University. My typing speed is fast af and the only people unjustly enriched by my career performance were the overpaid males whose job I performed in addition to mine. Talking to you, Skippy.

At the moment my medical marijuana card is up-to-date and I live within a fifteen-minute round-trip to the weed store. My cat celebrated her Quinceanera in 2016 and yet I’m not a fan of cat videos.

I’ve moved around a bit this past year, and I’m not done yet. Wherever I go, I somehow always live near the border between indifference and contempt.

Most of this is true except the facts that have been changed to protect those on one side of that border.

September, 2016