The winter of our dissed content

Extry, extry, read all about it … or not.

At The Atlantic, Noah “Fargo” Hawley advises us that too many reporters are writing fiction.

In a fund-raising email from Mother Jones, David Corn warns us (with one hand casually searching our wallet pockets and purses) that the legacy media’s value-neutral, highly inaccurate reviews of the various hams auditioning for parts in the Pestilence-Erect’s latest play are a form of “sanewashing.’

And at Radio Free Dogpatch, well — our little purse pooch of a podcast may not lift the biggest leg on the block, but it dearly loves a good pissing contest. Why not squeak in a little squirt of our own?

So lend an ear to the latest, massively hydrated edition of Radio Free Dogpatch, even though it may be, as The Bard had Richard declaim:

Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before [its] time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up. …

Shit, now that I think of it, the title may be the best part of the whole damn thing. …

• Technical notes: RFD favors the Ethos mic from Earthworks Audio; Audio-Technica ATH-M50X headphones; Zoom H5 Handy Recorder; Apple’s GarageBand, and Auphonic for a sonic colonic. The music, “Black Fedora” and “On the Job,” and the people networking and chanting all come from Zapsplat. All other evil racket is courtesy of Your Humble Narrator.

Light duty

Oi, Tōnatiuh! Up and at ’em!

I’ve been awake since 3:30. Four hours later Tōnatiuh still hasn’t shown his face above the Sandias.

Yet I am in a remarkably good mood. Why?

Because … more light soon come, Bubba; more light soon come.

The December solstice arrives at 2:48 p.m. Duck! City time, the Sun God’s advance scout galloping over the hill, herald of longer days and shorter nights.

Just think: If the Earth weren’t as crooked as some of the people who walk its surface, we would be denied this annual morsel of good news. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.