This was adapted today from what was originally a short McCheese update on Friday night. It won’t be edited until Sunday afternoon. The no-writing-at-night experiment tripped me up two days in a row due to other obligations, but my schedule is empty next week and I’ll be back to terrorizing the populace soon enough. There’s

I’ve not wanted to talk much about YOPD lately, here or anywhere else, because it’s been kicking my ass in one new and slightly unsettling way, in addition to the old ones.* Since it’s easier to improve your mindset than your motor function, I’ve been trying to stay focused on the things I can change.

One of my weekly routines is to browse the Kindle Sales page on Amazon, looking for library inspiration.* If you can wade past all the Kindle Exclusive junk on offer — werewolf porn, Gone Girl knockoffs, hockey smut (gay or straight, puck and stick puns abound), get-rich-quick schemes — you’ll find more interesting titles than

Last night, while watching Jaws: The Revenge, I realized its risible tagline — “This time, it’s personal” — would also make a great slogan for the YOPD site I developed a couple years ago and still haven’t launched.* It also works as a title for this post, which will cover a hodgepodge of subjects I’ve

Muriel didn’t type this, its mistakes are all mine. If you find tennis content boring it will immediately put you to sleep, but an explanation of what’s going on with my hand (and why it’s driving me nuts) would be just as ponderous. Superstition has prevented me from writing much, if anything, about the women’s

We’re doing something a little different tonight. I’ll write an introduction and afterward of sorts, but the story was written by relatives who died before I was born. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a lonely young homosexual in possession of a Netflix subscription 20 years ago, must be in want of Carol Kane

Unedited, as you’ll notice. There is a classic Roseanne scene in which Jackie, Roseanne’s sister, attempts to gently deliver news of their father’s death to an elderly relative who can’t understand what she’s saying. Her agitation builds with each failed repetition and she coarsens her language and raises the volume of her voice until she’s

This is going to be even messier than usual and probably won’t be worth reading until tomorrow. Alongside Motown, the Beach Boys, Alfred Hitchcock, Cary Grant and chocolate milk, detective novels were one of my earliest and most enduring loves.* I read the usual suspects as a child: Nancy Drew, The Boxcar Children, musty old

The last couple days have been brutal on the sleep and dystonia fronts, which delayed (and then canceled) last night’s musings. I’ll post it here instead, with a bit more meat on its bones, but this won’t be edited until tomorrow. “Faith Healers and Blue Heelers,” a very silly post I worked on this afternoon,