My dear search 'bots -- and you three self-aware protoplasms, too -- I feel a whine in the air, a temptation to which I shall not yield; feel free to imagine the vastness of the bathos you are thereby spared.
Instead, I'll mention some notions I've been kicking around, ideas that have yet to jell but show evidence of sufficient pectin:
"On soft-hearted economists and the short-sighted lenders that made 'em that way:" one of my better -- aw, shux, one of my darn few -- friends thinks the government ought to keep ripoff credit outfits from reelin' in the easy marks. I disagree, but not because fools are born to be fooled.
"The tragedy of the common roads:" this is a topic I promised Our Canadian Cousin;* the other way to handle roads is something I have experienced on a small scale, so it won't be all theory and high-minded blather. Look for a special guest appearance from a famous canard, the free-rider "problem." In this context, it might not be much of a problem.
And who knows, maybe other stuff. Or I might just chuck it all an' go hang out at the used bookstores, hopin' to find a nice geek who bathes occasionally an' all, a real charmer.
The last two days at the Skunk Works have been a good approximation of Hell, only without Samuel Clemens, Oscar Wilde and Ayn Rand jockeying for attention in the seats nearest the fire. I'd love to explain that, but it would be both a whine and tellin' tales that are not mine to tell, so you will just have to imagine. Antacids have nutritional value, right?
* Please don't take this whimsical tag as criticism of Canada per se or Canadians collectively or individually; it's just a handy way of referring to my pal and critic whose initials are text-message shorthand. He's right, you know: I'm not human. Or not hardly.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago