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I worked today. There was oddness at the checkin desk, and right hand and left hand needed to really consult about the schedules of monitors. I wound up "being" Pseudo-Emo Monitor; Cute Chick Monitor filled in for the other young guy monitor, whose pseudonym isn't cute enough to be rememebered off the top of my head (he clearly needs a new one...).

Work was work. I monitored people, and most of them did all right, unlike yesterday's "Now we've got the entire collection!" from the Pink Shirt Guy Shift Ops Super, as I handed him the fourth minus report from one of four notoriously poor-performing Phone Goons (all of whom had been sat in a row on a particular job).

I got supper and headed home. I unfortunately woke up marxdarx when I turned on the vacuum cleaner for a few seconds to clean up the baking soda I'd used to neutralize Little Miss Puss's poor choice in potty-places. I did a great sackful of laundry, and I chatted with my bro.

Life is good, and J. Robert King's Mad Merlin was an excellent choice from the library.

I have decided that modern horror (the well-crafted that makes one shiver in one's bones) fills the same niche that ancient tragedy did. Tragedy, then, wasn't meant to sadden or depress -- it was meant to truly horrify. Some of those things have lost their power to horrify, but some of them remain potent, but the word's lost its clout. Horror's losing its clout; modern horror has to be sifted from the bloodbaths that seek to create horror through sheer numbers of slaughter, but there's hope yet.

Stephen King would get so much more literary credibility if someone were to point out in a Lit class that he writes classic tragedy.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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