Welcome, dear reader…

In Which The Author States His Case, Sets the Regrettable Tone,
and Outlines His Modus Operandi

In the ’70s, when it was still legal to open a window, the Howard Beales of the world did just that and cried, to anyone who would listen,

 “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more!”

The nervous breakdown has evolved somewhat since then.

Now, in our hermetically sealed offices, measuring out our hermetically sealed lives and opinions with plastic coffee spoons, we are reduced to opening the symbolic window of the Internet and crying, as though to an echo chamber, “Why is nobody paying any attention to ME ME ME me me?”

What a come-down.

It is therefore with the hope of remedying this problem, namely, insufficient me-directed attention, that I begin to publish my various geezer-ish ramblings, wanderings, total non sequiturs, and out-and-out nonsense; not neglecting, of course, the instances both trivial and tremendous that have driven or do drive me to distraction; that have resulted, dear reader, in this, the food-encrusted bathrobe in which I spend my days, lapping gin from the dog dish and trying to get my crappy Kyocera Rise cellphone to function.

For I am old, desperate and without shame. At least, that’s what I think those lusciously muscular and definitely 18+ (documents on record) twinks who live in the opposite apartment are screaming at me.

To which I say: if you want “privacy”, dudes, try NOT renting a flat opposite some random perv old guy with binoculars, leaving the blinds up and taking off your Y-fronts.  Like, seriously?

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