Men used to wear loafers to the beach. Now they wear sandals to board meetings. Time marches on, I guess.

I don’t get around much anymore, myself. Two children and three jobs and no money might explain it — but it doesn’t. Picture the Intertunnel. All the stuff that’s in it. It’s grown too small for me, no matter how gargantuan it gets. It’s becoming two mirrors pointed at each another. Small and infinite.

I love it so, anyway, the Intertunnel. I saw it as a kind of meritocracy. Say what you like, and see if anyone pays attention. Credentials for sitting still didn’t apply. It’s more roped and branded now. Still light years ahead of newspapers, TV, and magazines, though. It’s gone from anarchy to a sort of Schedule C organization. At least it doesn’t have an HR office and mandatory golf outings yet.

I said I was sorry up at the header. I should get back to that. Lots (lots) of people email me, and mention me on their websites, and say kind things about me (or at least notice me), and I often don’t see them right away, and the formal informal Intertunnel protocol escapes me a lot. Hell, regular manners are often beyond me.

I often get a little tickle when I’m directed one Interplace or another, and discover bits of me there. Someday, I’m hoping I’ll walk into an second-hand store and find one of my pieces of furniture for sale in it. It will be sort of the same thing.

I’m grateful for my readers, because no man writes for no one. I have no idea who’s using my Amazon box to buy things, but people do, and I’m grateful for that, too. People that visit my website buy my furniture, too, and that’s how my children get fed, so I’m grateful for that, too. I’m grateful for a lot of things right now. And I appreciate that people link to what I write, and wish I had time to reciprocate properly, and knew what the hell “properly” is in the first place.

I have no idea if Pundit and Pundette are the General Motors of opinion or are an Internet lemonade stand. Mi dispiace –again– because I didn’t know they existed. Like I said, I don’t get around much anymore. But they seem pleasant. Of course they seem pleasant to me; they talk about me. I put them in my pathetic blogroll, so they can rub shoulders with people that haven’t written anything in four years but I haven’t the heart to erase, or I just haven’t noticed they’re dead yet. Sorry. I apologize for saying I’m sorry again. Forgive me. Oops, I regret that last act of contrition.

I’ve grown weary of the Two Minutes Hate available over wide bands of the Internet. It was easier to avoid when only one side was doing it. Having the Two Minutes Hate rebuttal is just Four Minutes Hate. A lot of people could use a good, sound ignoring. Nothing else will work on them, anyway.

Someone tell a joke, or post pictures of Grace Kelly instead of Helen Thomas.

Thanks in advance,
Sippican