After watching the ALCS last night, I was inspired to write a poem about the Mariners fandom. Growing up as a Red Sox fan in the early 90s, I genuinely thought I knew I knew misery.

As it turns out, I know nothing of pain. Nothing at all.

While the interminable wait for Esoteric Ebb marches on, here's a description of a bucket to tide you over.

Also, it's very late and I should not be allowed to edit audio or video at this hour. Or use a microphone. Or Mountain Dew past 5 PM.

chrisbodegard.bsky.social

Space Ghost Attempts to Cover Daft Punk

I gotta ask, when did Hugo Weaving start looking like David Harbour?

Daniel Defoe summing up the thoughts of hopeful authors everywhere.

David the Gnome comes to mind for me.