Another Saturday Night

 I made it to McClure's and have only stuck my nose out to have a smoke. Pretty quick ones at that - it is cold, again.

I got some Christmas cards written and wrote a bit more of a letter to Charlie G. 

Research for my dad's trust got started and a little marketing research was finished.

A pizza from Greek's came and was eaten. A bit of an indulgence.

From Dorothy Parker's Ashes, I read How Not to be Bitter by Rebecca Johnson:

 I decided to take a break from writing. At first, I felt an enormous sense of freedom. What joy not to feel constantly guilty about one’s lack of productivity! In fact, I seem to have a talent for sitting on the couch without a single thought in my head.  In time, however, I came to miss it.  Woody Allen said masturbation is sex with someone you love. Writing is conversation with someone you think you know really well. But they can surprise you.  Joan Didion said she wrote to learn what she thought.  I write to know how I feel. It’s hell, frankly. The stench of self delusion and loathing still rises from the keyboard like gas from the primordial swamp. But afterwards, I feel like three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Otherwise, I am not sure where the day went. 

Usually, I want to read everything, and I do not want to pass along anything I have not read. Tonight I am tired. I have enough of reading on the computer. So what comes next is a list of things I passed on reading tonight:

1. Atticus Review Pushcart Prize Nominees, 2022 
2. New Portland Police Oversight Board, Could be Strongest in the Nation and Create a National Model
3. Roaming Charges: Railroaded, Again (Okay, I read what was on the screen; it was the economy or 4 unions, and I do not call that a choice. But paid sick leave days needs to top of the agenda in 2024, as no way the Republicans will deal with it instead of Hunter Biden's laptop.)

I will call it a night now, and leave you with Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac. I guess Mick could not afford shirts.

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