When the blues come knockin', you better open the door.

 Another day lost in the ozone so another night of filling the white space until I hit word count. That's just how it is. I'm not getting paid for this so I see no reason to do it differently.

 This has been a weird week. Whatever ennui has got me in its clutches isn't letting go. Again, I'm not depressed or blue or angry, just lazy and disinterested. I haven't been to the gym all week and I doubt I'll go tomorrow. I haven't written anything but this and the News for a couple of weeks, and more than once I've come close to giving myself a day off.

 I don't know. I do know I need to get on the road for a while or figure out a painless way to get my head bad or something. I really don't want to change anything significant but this probably isn't healthy. I play my games and pick my guitar and blow my harps and pull my squeezebox and read my books and take naps. Lots and lots of naps. Maybe the only thing I enjoy more than naps is that lucid-dreaming time just before you fall asleep or just after you wake up.

 I've been reading an interesting Weird Western called The Six-Gun Tarot by one R.S. Belcher. It's the first book in the Golgotha series and you can tell he's spending most of the book setting up the universe. It's fun and well-written, though, so I imagine I'll get around to the other three books eventually. He's throwing a lot of different things into the stew, from Lovecraftian horrors to ancient female assassins to skinwalkers, and I always like that sort of thing.

 I haven't been keeping up with the news coming out of Atlanta about the shootings, but there really doesn't seem to be much to figure out. The guy shot up a bunch of message parlors because he, like far too many of us, figured "Asian women at a massage parlor" equals "paying for a hand job." But it's not racist, apparently, because it's not out of bounds to assume all massage parlors that staff Asian women are thus. Naturally.

 There was a place in Athens, may still be there, I don't know, but it was supposed to be a tug-job shack. There was also supposed to be a place that a dude could buy time in a glass booth watching a girl dance or get nekkid or both, sort of like a peep show joint. Again, I don't know. I find strip clubs, just plain old strip clubs, boring. It's not a knock against sex work or sex workers, it's just never been my thing.

 It is distressing that's where our society's brain goes to without almost hesitation, not only that there's no other situation massage parlors could be but that it's somehow understandable or not as bad this dude decided he had to kill what he thought were sex workers. That it's not racist to assume Asian women are sex workers because what else could they be, says the Modern American Bluenose.

 Anyhow. I'm rambling and probably not making too much sense. It's depressing that so many people on Twitter mistake "being an asshole" with "being a clear, unemotional, cynical thinker." No, you're an asshole, and maybe if you keep having to explain that the awful thing you just said "was just a joke," perhaps you suck at telling jokes. Something to consider. Maybe stop being an asshole because life is short and you'd rather not have your epitaph be "man, fuck that guy."

 So that's that for now. As always, if something comes up, blah-de-blah-blah. That's enough for now, I reckon.