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I’m not really limping away from this post, but I am in search of a listserv.

Substack, or Twitter’s Revue? Not necessarily. Maybe even Constant Contact, oh Lord, if it were to serve. Now this intro should baffle most writers/readers
perusing “THE READER.” And so what, he writes.

Time to head out of on-line communities and try to tone poem these trying times via some variation of a listserv.

I’ve been considering the change for over a year, and must say the anachronistic sound of a listserv does ring suddenly fresh, freeing, and comfortably pre-pandemic.

A listserv conjures an individual writer’s hideaway, while a communal post is redolent of a collective lockdown.

How romantic.

At three A.M. nature called and already woke, ( wouldn’t ya know) I iPad into the Weather Channel to get the skinny on that fat assed hurricane headed directly for the perish parishes of Louisiana. This storm has purchase. I worry about all but have a special prayer, previously unheeded, for Lake Charles. I did AIT at Fort Polk. (Tigerland still trigger?)

From there to the old grey lady…(does the NYT still trigger?) where I read about where writers, throughout Gotham’s history, drank and hung about and traded insults and partners and such sad old shit. O.K. story. A hoot if not a holler. And a story from Ms. Dowd, who I think has chosen to kickback in flats.

So much for this and that.

See Ya,

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