Notes From The Belly Of The Beast

I haven’t been posting much of late. I have recently started a new job and the training is 4PM to Midnight. The internal clock is still recalibrating. So it has come to pass that I am working for a major telecom company again. Back to the House Of Pain, the belly of the beast, back to the land of trite motivational slogans and of sports metaphors, and on that great day as I stare into the abyss of Black Screen DOS, oh let my name be given back to me.

Meanwhile, having at last cashed a paycheck, I cooked dinner for my niece and her husband, with whom I have been staying the last few months. I went forth into the streets of Woodland, California in search of a simple bottle of Moselle wine. Not a one was to be found, not in either grocery store, nor in the local caterers, nor in the liquor store. The problem is that German wine labels tend to be plain and descriptive, while most of the people who buy wines for your average grocer or liquor stores buy bottles with pretty modern art labels or that are from vineyards owned by celebrities…or both. To be fair, that is what will sell. This is, after all, America.

If you want to make a quick million or two, all you need to do is buy a tanker truck full of Mad Dog, bottle it, slap a label on it with a picture of a Kardashian holding a kitten, and charge $20 a bottle.

Come to think of it, that pretty much describes the election.

The Town Scryer
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