Man the lifeboats, Head for Substack!

I’m jumping ship, scuttling the Siberia With a View website, saying goodbye to WordPress and, with a nod to Samuel Langhorne Clemens, I’m turning things over to Everett Karl.

Everett is one of my favorite writers and I’m certain he will uphold the sterling SWaV tradition on Substack, with “The Hafwit’s Diary.”

The Substack newsletter will eventually include all the posts that appeared on SWaV and, on Everett’s odd but sensitive creative watch, new material will appear on a regular basis. Or so he says.

At the outset, you can get a free subscription to “The Hafwit’s Diary.” After six months or so, if you are in a magnanimous frame of mind, you can pony up a pathetic sum in order to read most future posts. A few will still be offered free of any charge.

Everett promises me he will share any subscriber revenue with me “when the time is right.”

Everett refuses to give me free access to The Hafwit’s Diary, so I too will eventually pay as a subscriber. I’ll get it back, though, “when the time is right.”

Go now to Substack. Dial in “The Hafwit’s Diary,” by Everett Karl. Support Everett and, “when the time is right” you will help me purchase extra Ensure at the care center.

Please tell your friends (if you have friends) about Substack and “The Hafwit’s Diary,” by Everett Karl. Urge them to sign up for the free subscription. Numbers matter. Everett’s sense of well being is at stake; he’s fragile, and must be handled with great care.

The Hafwit’s Diary, by Everett Karl, on Substack.

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Stupid, Drunk, and Fat — With A Smidge Of Korean Pepper Fun Sludge

My wife called me,”the walking anus of the universe.”

I’m not sure what this means, nor am I sure of why she chooses to call me “the walking anus of the universe” instead of her usual: “Self-absorbed, jerk off, butt hook.”

I sense her new description of me does not reflect well on my character. Continue reading

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At Last, The Ideal Job

I’m stretched out on my simulated leather recliner a few nights ago, the first half hour of the Cops marathon complete. I’m spent. I’m a top-tier cultural anthropologist, but I have been bested by information overload, overwhelmed by too much insight into the real America, Trump’s America. Continue reading

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Waiting for the still point, the end of the set

They’re all gone, but me.


I have a photo, a black and white pastogram.


A group of five young men gather atop a pile of rubble, in front of a single-story brick structure in Boulder, Colorado. A sign fixed to the building indicates the place is occupied by Rolands Beauty Salon.


It is late winter, 1966.


The photo is of a group of musicians that, with one departure and two arrivals, would become the Pleasant Street Blues Band, taking the name from a street in Boulder. The band would end up playing little blues music and there would be few things pleasant about it. Continue reading

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