2 YEARS


That's how long the LOST one has been a bloggin. It's been cathartic at times. Snarky, very snarky at others. Mostly, its been a pleasure, even with the break between this and the last post. LOST has learned that its possible to generate enough material for a book - if there's enough time for writing. LOST has not stopped writing in other places, either, having used this and other monikers on other progressive websites, as well as getting occasionally published in the LTTE departments of two or three of the local fishwraps - albeit under the Clark Kent moniker.

LOST is two years older, so is the world. The chips are growing bigger by leaps and bounds. People in the circle are fading. Skills long dormant have been nurtured again - and LOST has the fingertip callouses to prove it. A new instrument - the first in thirty years has been purchased, and its steel string tones are dulcet, and its more intimate fretboard more amenable to these digits which are pushing the half century mark.

We're entering the last throes, if you will, of the long national nightmare Frat party on the Potomac. It should be a cause - celebre, but the hangover will be felt by all, and already, the jockeying for blame assignment has begun with a vengeance. The bastards responsible - and fugue it, they Know who they are - are feverishly trying to deflect, or for those rich enough, further consolidate the protective ground around them. So Rightie Rupert is trying to buy the Wall Street Journal/Dow Jones Co.. Here's hoping that he comes out and proposes to the "Reverend" Moon, so that that match can finally be made. Sick twisted twosome they are. Mann-beast resurfaced this week to wish for assassination for John Edwards. Pathetic playground insults - their favorite medium, and all that they really have left at this point. But the real doo doo will hit the fan when the Preznit's tax cuts expire. EVERYONE except the poorest of the poor will be affected, and the latter will simply sigh and say, "sheesh, what took y'all sooo long, we've been moaning here for years." In this part of Redder than the Rest the grocery clerks are about to strike again. The vitriol with which they've been attacked - hell you'd think THEY were all "Illegals" too (the favorite pariah phrase of the ignant masses 'round these hollows) - speaks volumes about how dense and darkened the minds of far too many in this area. All these folks want is a wage that doesn't require them to get a third job - hell the dream of owning a home for most of these folks has gone the way of the dodo. No, LOST ain't talking about any local City Council-members, either.

Soo much more that could be said. So much needs to be spoken. Enough for now, though, the Yamaha APX is callin these fingers, and they must obey.