The Triumphal, If Short-Lived, Return
Hello hello hello, bloggy friends. What a pleasure to see you all again after so long away interacting with actual real people in the real world who have faces you can see. All very disconcerting. And you know the inconvenient thing I discovered? When you shout at a 'person' in the 'real world' that they're an ignorant asshole lacking any scrap of analysis or historical rigor and they should shut the fuck up and stop polluting the universe with their warmongering filthy spew, there is no little 'x' in the top corner of them you can then click to make them disappear. They remain stubbornly present, as do the violent invective and fisticuffs they then proceed to direct your way. This is a design flaw, I feel.
Anyway. Having evaded by less than 24 hours (yes! an idiot non-anecdote!) the demi-Inferno that is Heathrow Terminal 4 (and here may I insert a massive fucking big up to the T&G members at BA who walked out in solidarity strike with the Gate Gourmet workers who have been treated beyond abominably by their putrescent union-busting employer, which among other more concrete offenses told the union that its workforce, mostly composed of minimum-wage workers from South Asia, 'is a community we cannot work with'. Racist fucks. All the solidarity in christendom to the sacked GG workers and their supporters, and here's trusty Lenin with a basket of useful resources in re), I am once more, albeit fleetingly, ensconced in the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations.
Fleetingly I say, for tomorrow I'm awa' to Cape Cod for a few brief halcyon days, my one and only trip to the sea this whole summer. I know, I know, it's practically five weeks in Crawford (less the bronco-bustin' or the [presumptive] armadillo-tackling--and how fantastic would it be if he caught leprosy?). You have my apologies for such slackerousness (which is more than you'll fucking get from His Chimpesty), and my assurances of utmost diligence upon return. It remains possible that I will have connectivity in my sandy seclusion and hence be able to resume service in situ, but I don't know yet, so I wanted to Manage your tender Expectations and not o'erpromise.
Meanwhile, I wish to thank the divine Tempestua for her custodianship in my absence. You'll have gathered that I have a rather checkered acquaintance, given that Ms. T is the one I deemed best (least ill?) suited to represent me in public. She is, you'll surely agree, an Original. And Harry my dear, it will do you no good at all to go mooning about here plaintively wondering when Tempestua will be back, or if she perhaps left a message for you, a lipstick or a forwarding address. You're not the first to fall prey to her desiccated but curiously puissant charms, and you undoubtedly won't be the last. Safe to say that when in the fullness of time (gods willing many long, pickled years from now) Tempestua takes her leave of this mortal plane, the coroner will assuredly be called to the tearful scene to pry her rigored fingers from the delicate bits of some poor bewildered innocent who only came in to deliver a Get-Well bouquet from one of her countless admirers. Ladies and gentlemen, Tempestua Ignatieff.