The news is grim, but thankfully most of it is outside the relative safety of Carlton. Plane/train crashes and military coups and armed vigilantes remind us of the fragility of life, and how bizarre and curious and seemingly unlikely our individual survival is. How is it that I’m still alive? Or am I? Any day the whole thing could be over. I could get electrocuted by my computer or be bitten by that one West Nile Virus mosquito who decided to try the Methow for a change. I could be walking in the wrong place at the wrong time and get droned by Obama, even though I voted for him twice, which he obviously knows since it turns out he spent the last five years spying on me. Should that last one happen I would be forced to re-think many things, including my voting record, but only for a short bit of time.
There are other burning questions to ponder. How is it that I’m not extraordinarily wealthy? Or am I? And so on.
Some people have asked why the Carlton news is so often squeezed into such a tiny space on the back page of the paper and the reason is because I have such a short attention