Fond of rumpots, crackpots, and how are you, Mr. Wilson?

I have no idea what to say.

There are certain protocols that go along with returning to blogging after an extended absence: the "yeah, it's been a while since I last posted" shrug, the catch-up details on what's been going on, the indication that regular posting will/may recommence. (Apologies for any of the above are optional. Unless you're me, in which case bring on the wailing performative regret!) I've done a thousand reboot posts like that, and I am sick unto death of writing them because I always do them wrong, with all my mea culpas for things that don't need mea culpa-ing and all my promises with no stiff cardboard backing. All I know is that I've been wanting to get myself moving again on journaling for months, but have had no gumption to do so. hypnagogie just started up again with daily morning entries after a very long absence, however, so I'm going to borrow a cup of gumption from her and see how this goes.

The lack of initiative has largely been because Life decided to shake stuff up like a souvenir snow globe: first, I moved to Brunswick, Maine to be with hypnagogie on shorter notice than expected, to an apartment with a purple front door and its own washer-dryer. The good news is that the apartment is amazing, Brunswick is amazing, my life up there is amazing, no regrets. The bad news is that Maria Kondo-ing and packing up my accumulated worldly possessions had to happen VERY VERY QUICKLY, as did getting Nik off to Job Corps in Vermont, so March and April were downright gonzo-pants. Well, that and the other bad news that I'm still working in Lexington and the powers that be have denied us the possibility of working from home, so I get to commute 2 1/2 to 3 hours each way, five days a week, complete with Boston-area I-95 traffic both coming and going. That level of nonexistent work/life balance doesn't leave much brain-space for ruminations on, like, coffee cups or season 2 of Fleabag. (OMG watch Fleabag seriously because I can't even with the thing it's SO GOOD.)

So yes, I want to write, and no, I have no idea what to write about. I'm trying to remember that back in the day, lack of content was hardly a hindrance—behold, World, my lunch choices! Are you not entertained?! How on earth did I do this several times a day? It probably has something to do with being in my 30s, and/or having nothing better to do. Whatever. My apartment has a purple front door, my job has good free coffee, Fleabag is available for streaming, the sky is up there, the earth is down there, ob-la-di, ob-la-da. Meet back here tomorrow? Same time, same place?

I remember this meme going around a decade ago, and never indulged, so. Courtesy of calliopes_pen:

1. Comment to this entry saying 'Ooo Shiny!' and I will pick 3 of your icons/userpics.
2. Make an entry in your own journal (or just reply if you prefer) and talk about the icons I picked!

Her three choices for me all fall in the pop reference continuum:



"Shrabster," the only episode of Sealab 2021 I ever watched, was a capital-T Thing in my social circle for long enough that I decided to create a handful of userpics from relevant catchphrases, such as "Sweet mother of holy fucking God..." and the immortal "Filet o' freakin' Fish, Dan." I intended this one to be used for flashback/reminiscence-type posts, but I don't think I ever actually did so.



From Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies, natch. I've got all 26, of which I've used six or seven over the years. Maybe I should be glad I've lived a life that's only intermittently Gashlycrumb-appropriate. Maybe I should make more of an effort. (Created by and borrowed from neitherday)



MR. BOOGALOW. People who have known me for any length of time, please be patient a moment whilst I proselytize to the newcomers: If you haven't seen the 1980 post-apocalyptic neo-Miltonian disco rock opera The Apple, hie thee immediately to thy viewing devices and rectify this immediately. Mr. Boogalow is our hissably bedazzled villain, the CEO of Boogalow International Music, symbol for all that is evil in corporate rock culture in The Distant Future (i.e. 1994), and quite possibly [SPOILER ALERT] actually Glam Satan. The song "I Know How to Be a Master" comes during a makeover montage that roughly only the 37th most ridiculous thing in this movie, so by all means let this light into your life forthwith.

Sometimes it takes a while: I've finally migrated from LiveJournal to Dreamwidth. Formerly slipjig at the LJ mothership, now slipjig3 at DW because somebody at the new place sharked the name and then left the journal sitting there as a paperweight. If I knew you in the hinterlands of that past life, feel free to comment and say hello. If I didn't, feel free to comment and say hello. Hi.

I've missed this. I don't mind saying so.