'heard the Crimbus bells rangalanging.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men

Across the brow-beaten schizoid-of-weather fusion-encrusted and drained erf, I wandered, looking at the monuments of some of the old cities.  A world-destroying existential paradox, a proclivity towards California-style dissipation, but I thought to myself, with an ounce of renewed depression, it hadn't always been that way.

Under Reagan in 84, it was "Morning In America", before the hardliners got bitchy, everybody was essentially beguiled of a dollar and a spare moment to pick a booger.  

Now some say the woke are trying to tear it all down and rebuild it in their own weird image, the people that can barely read past emojis and nude photos, trying to recast the world in their own image; its more of the push-pull, top-up bottom-down kind of thinking, that some deserve and get, but we've seen a sort of Gordon Greedo kicked to the curbed ahead of a Congressional hearing, arrested and tossed aside, something like 1.2B left of 3.5B+ in debt overhanging.

It's the dirty little pro-growth "growth-at-any-cost" secret of banking and high-finance, MS buys into London SE for 4% but almost gives that back by securing usage of its own cloud.

Dirty little unsophisticated little things, and you would have to pay me or offer the service free before I used MS Cloud services, such a clumsy unwieldy product, I was running Outlook and it crashed, not six inches from monitor, a tv screen with a Bill Gates interview on.  And Excel, the VBA brains of the outfit, I had personally penned a few suggestions for OneNote, thinking it had the potential, when properly linked to the Outlook and Office apps, to be quite a useful little booger in its own right.

VBA string statistics.  In the old days, Rufus Howard and Roland, taking popcorn on strings and lining the trees with them; my thing is to have a live tree in a giant pot, living and still living thereafter, soil, nutrients, water, my stupid smile.

"VBA for OCD persons."

They had created possibly something of what lies at the core of the earth, a paradox of energy that pull water, clouds, even the plate tectonics of the very soil under our feet, a global energy crisis, precipitate, where we have to keep feeding the thing something, something to keep it from swallowing the entire earth, the whole while, the thing becoming so strong it pulls back its own emissions, even photons, and we have, in effect, an encrusted core, a nice little pull-back, and we have to get Spiderman to toss it into the East River to stop the thing.

I was reading Campbells had increased take 15% while losing 1% of sales volume, which means a nice little price increase, and the enigmatic phrase, "price elasticity", and WSJ barring me from their website, hiding me, hiding them, putting a nice pay wall between the unflattering truth of big business, the mindless certitude and soap-smell oddity, the shaven, that is the big business strategem.

Of golfers, my experience is thus: too high monthly fees, sort of a corporate allowance for the man, taking too much money off the top to sustain himself, but wanting, fair enough, to be compensated over time for his investment.

The other had a nice bleach-white Titlist hat.  I gave him a scholarly book, bought by me with student loan dollars, a book on one of his favorite topics, and he seems to have discarded it.

So of golf, I say, "go f*ck a bug".

The fairways are lovely though.

Satan Claus had a gleam in her eye last night, and a kind of Mona Lisa smile, and I wondered, was that some sort of Benzo-induced lethargy brought on by hearing my Ted Talk on Doug, given early in the day.  Had she been crying?  And I was looking at, among other things, a Camaro-survivor sitting in a room full of Chrysler-Plymouth-Dodge stuff, which was an oddity in its own right.

I had mentioned that Mariah Carey's Christmas song, our alma mater, was released circa 1994, but only first reached the top spot on BillBoard in 2019, in a doldrum filled with Taylor Keyes, and Bianca and all those that are touted for moneys made.  "She has her own record company; she's become a business lady."  And I thought it weird that Taylor Keyes had got paid years back for all her songs, but then she does them over at her own expense and re-releases the entire catalog, stuff most musicians eclipse in the second or third year of creating, but the cell phone streamers get stuck on it.

I speculate a software virus has artificially flated Tailor's sales.

If you were showing your thighs, singing your heart out, and the audience turned against you, you could reconfigure, or you could just hate the audience, or like Gutfeld, just stop writing books.

Years back, and I had missed the reference at the time, but I was asked for a second performance after a first performance, an instrumental piece on distortion guitar, a somewhat odd version Beethoven's Fate.  It sounded balls-out on the tweaked-up guitar, a cheapie on a pretty good muscle amp.

I put my ball's in your mother's hole, not some stupid plastic cup.  What are you?  A 1990's teen-comedy?

"Shes an entrepreneur; she has a fashion company."

In fact, she's probably directly texted me her bare breasts on Whatsapp.

"Oh, well she's also a model."

I tend to break pieces off of sh*t like that.

But I had my Moment of Bliss today.  Consumption, the taking-in, and all that, and later, my bald head in the beautiful sunlight of a mildly cool day. 

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
    "For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."