Fall. Gather your nuts.

So, If you're like me...and I can only assume you are...

you are getting

very excited

about fall.

Enough of this "beach reading sunny happy sweaty shavey shorty sunscreeny" business. Finally we can get back to sleeping without swimming in our own fluids. We can get back to being maudlin and autumnal and avuncular and no more pastels!

(avuncular?)

It is time for sad literature. It is time for literature. and turtlenecks. and run-on sentence fragments. And overcrowded Targets and too many reasonably priced Tupperware storage solutions!

Peanut butter and apple cidery-whiskey burned leafs and early bedtimes and temporal INSECTICIDE.

Per Peterson overtakes Stieg Larsson. Welcome back H.P. Lovecraft over Eckhart Tolle. Eat Pray Love bends to Tolstoy.

I cease freckle acquisition, and begin the hunt for a good Trapper-keeper.

Fall means rebirth of the interior.

Time to find a good book to beat you up.

"...they make billions" she said, as we shook our head over the greed of a certain monolithic octopus online corporation that is threatening to stop selling goods to my homestate's businesses, should the state pass a law that requires that corporation to collect sales tax on goods sold to businesses there.

you know who doesn't make billions?
writers
clowns
comedians
99.9% of actors
poets
painters
sculptors
graffiti artists
chefs
dancers
singers
musicians
99.9% of filmmakers
teachers.

And not one of them, not one of them, who over the course of my life have provided the spark for my laughter, or brought tears to my eyes, or lit a fire of inspiration inside of me, have ever threatened to withhold their services, for any reason.

Buy poetry, as a friend wrote here recently.
And look at paintings, and taste the food you eat,
and listen to the words of the songs you hear.

And don't let anyone tell you that a corporation is a person.