My blag’s been getting so many hits since I posted about Diesel’s new store, Bloc 11. It’s been reposted several times with various threads. But yesterday I discovered my very favorite one. After quoting a line from “Your Queer Heritage: Gentrification,” some blagger said he’d never encountered someone in more desperate need of a hit over the head with Atlas Shrugged.

Really? Atlas Strugged? I mean. I know the Liberals are mad… but the conservatives?! Why not just say I should be hit over the head with Dianetics? I mean, if you’re gonna go for an unethical life philosophy rooted in fiction why not go for Scientology? Those folks are making all the big bucks these days.

In other news, there’s some comfortingly familiar phenomenon beginning. I’m turning, not so slowly, in on myself. Today I made some pickles and walked into a strip mall where they were playing “Big Yellow Taxi” which seemed a little— counterintuitive. “Paved paradise and put up a parking lot?” The only place more inappropriate to play that song is a, perhaps, parking lot. I guess apple cider vinegar doesn’t wash off so easily. It smells like some sort of acrid earwax all over my fingers.

I also heard from J about her thwarted tree-saving endeavors. The Norwegian maple in her backyard has now been pruned so far that half the tree is gone, exposing half the bare yard to direct sunlight. It will no longer be a hospitable area for reading and recreation. Instead it will be decoratively grassy– if the landlord actually plants– suitable only for showing the apartment the prospective tenants. There’s just something about decorative spaces that I haven’t put my finger on yet.

Like my estranged Ladywife, now charming NYC with his every wit and outfit- I’m sure, I’ve descended into something. Mechanical. Dire. Perpetuating. Whereby I: leave my apartment for class and one required hour a day, return, fail to sleep, and get positively crazy if there’s no back up movie to watch in case of too much quiet. I’m on the brink of something. With hope, something manageable and close– luxuriously free from panic even if I do have to have another baddest bout of insomnia and some other minor disturbances.

City to city- I worry and don’t call.