Well, yesterday's crisis, at least, has been averted for now: the landlord being in agreement as to the wisdom of the 'Bird In Hand' Tenant Theory in this rental market, an arrangement has been arrived at that will keep us from waking up on the lawn Wednesday, if it can be stuck to, and we didn't even have to pimp out the cats. Yet. Much else remains to be settled, in the saga of the Family Finances, but with the overriding terror of Imminent Homelessness And Death, or at any rate a descent into a Green Acres-ish hell with Mum's Wisconsin relatives, staved off for the nonce, we can both get some real sleep and return to the fray with our wits restored. Now if only one or other of the promising Mac-related leads I've received pans out, I may actually be returning to a state where I can get something done fairly shortly...
In other news, now that I can spare some processor cycles for something more approaching the baseline level of faint disdain for popular culture that I had been trying to establish in this journal before the last month's trials, I find myself weirdly shocked by this morning's sudden death of John Ritter. In a week that also saw the passing of Warren Zevon, Leni Riefenstahl, Edward Teller, and Johnny Cash, somehow it's Ritter dropping dead that keeps returning to haunt me today. Perhaps it's the spectre of heading off to work one morning and BAM, gone, that's got me; no matter how healthy one thinks one is, or how secure one's access to the best of care, sometimes, BAM, the fragility of human life can sneak up and kneecap one's awareness.
Or maybe I'm just in a morbid frame of mind lately. Wouldn't be the first time.
In other news, now that I can spare some processor cycles for something more approaching the baseline level of faint disdain for popular culture that I had been trying to establish in this journal before the last month's trials, I find myself weirdly shocked by this morning's sudden death of John Ritter. In a week that also saw the passing of Warren Zevon, Leni Riefenstahl, Edward Teller, and Johnny Cash, somehow it's Ritter dropping dead that keeps returning to haunt me today. Perhaps it's the spectre of heading off to work one morning and BAM, gone, that's got me; no matter how healthy one thinks one is, or how secure one's access to the best of care, sometimes, BAM, the fragility of human life can sneak up and kneecap one's awareness.
Or maybe I'm just in a morbid frame of mind lately. Wouldn't be the first time.