Saturday, March 26

Out along the foothills, everything blanketed in snow and the particular dingy grey of snowclouds still churning slowly over the mountains. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were still coming down up above Jamestown.

In Lyons, I remember the only thing I’ve eaten all day is a chocolate chip cookie. I’m in-between kitchens and the Fork isn’t open for dinner yet, so for reasons that escape me now I go to Oskar’s and buy a PBR and a hamburger instead of waiting half an hour.

Not long after I’ve finished the burger, a tall guy dressed like a cowboy (hat, Carhartts, neck bandana) steps up to where I’m sitting at the bar and asks me if I’m any good at math. No, I say, but what’s the question? He wants to figure out what he’s spending on gas in a day if he’s driving a hundred miles in his truck at 19 miles to the gallon and gas is $1.80. I do some arithmetic. We talk about wear and tear on the truck. And you gotta keep in mind, I say, a buck eighty for gas ain’t gonna last that much longer. Well, he says, especially with this crazy presidential election.

I am reasonably sure that he really wants to tell me about being a Trump supporter several conversational beats before he actually tells me about being a Trump supporter.

He at least has the decency to look a little sheepish about it, once he notices I’m not really biting. And when he says well, we really oughta just all live as simply as we can, I don’t disagree too much with that part. I’m grateful he walks away without saying anything else.

Not that I live simply, whatever that means. A week ago I was just getting off an airplane from New York City. A week from today I’ll be on the other coast, paying too much for drinks and otherwise living beyond my means. I am the problem, guy with a ranch job.

I guess we’re all kind of the problem.

friday, march 25


in memory, written over and over again,
the kind of remembering that becomes
itself like a place you sometimes go:
the weighted darkness of the church
a heavy book slammed shut with finality
silent leaving, the sense of biding time

Wednesday, March 23

A new, irregular feature here at

Brief musings in praise of limited aspects of some software I have come to, overall, resent my entanglement with:

In GMail, I like the theme that shows you what the weather is supposedly doing at your location.

In Notepad, I historically always liked the font.

In Slack, I am a fan of the Party Parrot.

Friday, March 11

It’s cool this evening, some of the cold that’s been absent from the days lately seeping back in after the sun is down.

The days have been quite warm indeed.

Saturday, March 5

yo dawg

You can use backticks on the Vim command line to interpolate the output of a shell command into the command (just like in Bash). For example, I just did this to edit a script I use for taking screenshots:

:e `which grab-sel`

As you know, Bob, which(1) gives you the the absolute path to a command. In this case, grab-sel is just a Bash script in /home/brennen/bin/.

This comes in handy with pmwhich, a script I wrote to spit out the absolute path of the version of a Perl module your user would see when doing a use Module:

:e `pmwhich Text::Markdown::Discount`

Looking at it again for the first time in ages, I suppose that script could be a little risky, since it does use the module in question, which could mean all kinds of random code gets executed. I suppose this is a risk I’m willing to take with a janky one-off utility, insofar as I’m probably already running the code anyway by the time I need to use it. Nevertheless, beware that it could get you owned by someone who already has the privileges to drop a malicious Perl module somewhere on your system. (And probably, because everything is hard, in other ways I’m not giving due consideration.)