500 of these. What a towering achievement/waste of time

 I've written 500 of these blogs. On average they get between 50 and 100 views per blog and they always have done. It's not gone up or down. Occasionally, I'll do a review of a play or something, and the theatre will latch onto the free publicity and share it around town, glinting with naked self interest, and the hit rate will increase. But not greatly. And they don't thank you for it either. I once did a rather gushing review of a play, praising the direction, the acting, the script, the costumes, the lighting - you name it, I loved it. But I had the temerity to suggest the play was perhaps ten minutes too long, a small, accurate observation, just so the review wasn't a total hagiography. The executive producer of the theatre cut through the dispiriting forest of praise to get to the nub of the thing, writing, tersely, "The play isn't ten minutes too long." 

Glad that's what you took from it, mate. 

                                            

I no longer review plays. Why should I? They just film actors coming out of the theatre saying everything in the show is brilliant now. Actors who will pop up in the next production. 

The blog started in Sept 2018, so it covers my mother's death and funeral, the pandemic, several of my plays, several of my holidays, several attempts to stop drinking. The deaths of a few friends. The release of a number of my records, a couple of short films, my frustrating dealings with the Disney corporation, descriptions of successive awful governments. Anniversaries of deaths, weddings, birthdays and Valentine's Days, and a review of the film, Loqueesha, the worst film ever made. No, it IS. Don't come at me. You haven't seen it. Go, watch it, and then come back to me shaking, with your thousand yard stare, the single word "Why?" bubbling on your cracked, dry lips. 

It's a bad film. 

In effect, this is just a diary. It has no other function, though, as I get older, it is nice to be able to outsource the memories my frazzled brain can no longer recall with any certainty. Still, 500. That's a lot. Maybe I should just stop. It's a nice even number. They have dropped off a bit recently as I've had book stuff to do. 

I dunno. 

500 of these things. More millstone than milestone. Novels worth of gibberish. What a repository. But a repository of what? A museum of me. A Meseum.