A decade or more ago, I was publishing a blog. This dates me. I also worked, early on, as an editor for the dot.com that made the first free "homepage builder" (TriTeca? anyone?), dating me even more. I have a few vivid memories of the internet 1.0, back when you could stumble onto truly odd private esoterica and beautiful low-res photographs uploaded directly from the idiosyncratic corners of someone's subconscious, a world when we were all less practiced at curating ourselves online. 

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At the risk of switching between codes too quickly, I'm re-upping that more autotheoretical mode of writing and re-publishing some old blog posts. We all hold many readers. The old blog is an invitation to the reader who has finished with the heavy lifting for now. Remember when late at night, you could page through without expectations or notifications? 

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Here's one. In 2014, I wrote about drinking and writing and rockstars:

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I like the whole album, but that song, their biggest hit, is about that time at the end of the night when you want to call your ex, the one you can’t stop thinking about but know you shouldn’t call. It’s about obsession and spilling drinks on my settee and crawling back to you, feelings and cravings that people conventionally shelve in a marketing category separate from soccer moms. We are meant to hold down the edges of a square world that indie rock must define itself against

Yes, it’s true, Alex Turner, I also like Katy Perry. But I promise my fandom doesn’t have a downside, I carry no glamor that wards off cool. Dark feelings and difficult cravings don’t end because you have children. I meet your music where it lives