Administrivia: 25 November 2022

Oh hey, belated Happy Thanksgiving to any American readers happening by. I know there are a fair few of you, if the visitor stats can be believed. Also, occasionally I hear from you. And when I say “occasionally” I mean “twice via my gmail account since I shut down the social media stuff.” What’s that, a couple years now? Anyway.

So, the latest person (hi, Emily! [waves]) seems to have dug up some more info on the Giles Laurent ketches of which Rory’s boat is one. Apparently… let me see if I get this right… when boatmakers or at least GL make several copies of a given boat model, the first boat made of that model also carries the name of the model as its own name. So there is a Dorus Mhor called Dorus Mhor, and it sounds like that’s the one Rory owns. That’s fucking cool.

She also told me something I already knew, that the name means “great open door” or similar. I remember when I learned that at the time thinking “oh, isn’t that symbolic,” but that seems to be par for the course for the big man, anyway. Son of Hound/wolf cub born in the city founded by the Hound King and loves to go hiking and camping in the Valley of the Dogs*. I mean.

Anyway, I may refer back to her email and go do my own digging and update the page about Rory’s boat. Add it to the list, I suppose.

She seems to have some ideas about me. Nothing wrong with that, just, she’s not the first person I’ve ever encountered to have ideas like that about me, and I’m not even talking about in relation to Rory. This goes back a bit. I am not sure how to address it all, and it really doesn’t matter anyway, because this site isn’t about me. Suffice to say I am probably not the person you think I am and, if it’s any consolation, the guy I cohabited with for more than a decade didn’t “get” me either, and 99.9% of you have never even met me in person. I’m weird. I own it. Weird people are hard to read. Even when you think we’re not.

But… A lot of it goes back to stuff I’m trying to figure out about myself lately anyway. There was a time I’d have sat down and tried to write through it all. I did make a few attempts this time, too, but then thought, “…Nah.” Cannot be arsed. Everything is still too much in flux. What seems true for me right now might not be true in another three days. Tell you what, I thought I had trust issues before. But I wouldn’t still be here if I hadn’t learned to adapt. So there’s that.


Had a boneless ribeye for my own little Thanksgiving. There is a particular way I prepare it and I hadn’t been able to do that in over a year. Did not do any delivery driving. My app promised mad fat quest bonuses but then informed me that it did not anticipate much ordering activity. Well, duh. But later today ought to be nice and insane. I need to get ahead of the room and the front-axle brake maintenance, anyway.

And then next week I start a new training class. Three days a week for four weeks. I vacillate between trying to find a job anyway, and waiting until the class is done to see who or what bites. The latter might be preferable. I’ll play it by ear.

Later, gators.

*It is commonly believed that Glen Coe means “valley of sorrow,” owing to the massacre that took place there a few centuries back, but I was privy to a Facebook comment conversation on a Scottish page one day where someone who knew a Gaelic speaker informed us all that it means “valley of dogs.” I do not speak Gaelic, but I just asked Google what the Gaelic word for “hound” is — “dog” was something else entirely — and it spat out “cú” at me, which is Irish Gaelic. Which, hearkening back to the very little I know of pre-Christian Irish folklore, I am not surprised. And Irish and Scots Gaelic are not that different from one another. So.