Air-conditioned Nightmares

The chicken has come home to roost.

That is not a reference to Michael Rasmussen, ex-Rabobank professional and Maillot Jaune nightmare. That is a reference to myself, longtime organizational neurotic now behind a bureau guiding the affairs of a few quiet bike lockers, a monthly e-newsletter, and other little odds and ends. The sheen of this desk-riding, air-conditioned whirligig is disappearing.
The point is that the prospect of what I'm forgetting is so nerve-wracking that I waste energy in useless handwringing that's makes the whole mess a fait accompli. Last Friday was the supreme example, or was it Thursday? All this pseudo-productivity of email sending and meeting attending, spastic rule-following and rule-assaulting of members of the public is wearing goddamned thin by August when one would rather be canoeing gently across the waterways of rural Ontario or getting drunk in Galicia or out-of-control in Amsterdam.

Must get the damned newletter out before another subscriber dies off or I die off or you do.