We watched The Post on HBO the other night.

Here’s our review: It’s horrid.

Like an aging, dying Ben Bradley desperately trying to re-write history, we’re seeing what likely is the end of our 20 year + publishing run.

Unfortunately, we still haven’t heard back from Shark Tank.

Without graphics, our site, like PBS is listless.

Tom Hanks as Ben Bradley is a cartoon.

“Eh, what’s up, Doc?”

Meryl Streep is her usual breathless, deer in the head lights, boring.

Never mind the movie is historically inaccurate.

Maybe the worst thing you can say about watching a movie, any movie, is the entire time I was watching it I felt like I was watching a movie.

Or, in the case of The Post, a cartoon.

In the end, it’s more important to do what you feel is right than to do what you feel like. I think. Upstate New York grey envelopes like a fog. Thick, cold and moist makes it difficult to breathe. Moody Blues on the radio blew Max Steingrout’s 14 year old mind. It had been blown before, mind you, to the point of brain damage. Like falling backward in a dream into the darkness. Arms stretched grasping for, maybe, grace. Maybe for a helping hand. Time was the great healer and so they said. Seemed accurate enough. The long term memory was stable enough. The short term practically non-existent. Creatures of habit leading to addiction vise and vermin were rampant. Punished for playing with matches doomed to this hell, on earth. The nuns at Elmira’s Home for Little Wanderers were vindictive. Suspected of Christ killer descent and lacking the adorableness of same of his Aryan orphaned counterparts, toddler Steingrout learned he was not to be trusted. Winters were long, spring brief, summers suspect, fall sad and winters long again. He turned to anything that made him feel better. Naraganset, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Camels, weed, cocaine, quaaludes, hallucinogens, whiskey. Trouble seemed to follow like a mangy, hungry old dog following  him home from school. The local, German Shepard police force had 20 pages on yearling Steingrout including breaking and entering, resisting arrest, drunk and disorderly, public drunkenness, attempted robbery, attempted rape, lewd and lascivious behavior, public masterbation among other things. Most were trumped up. Especially the rape charge. Max didn’t remember it except that she was the town whore and supposedly they entered into an agreement and Max didn’t have any money. Max never had any money. Child slave labor at the home including back braking snow removal in the winter and vomit inducing bunion rubbing in the late summer evenings.  “Rub them good you Jew bastard,” Sister Nora would moan.

One day, when Max was 15, like Cinderella, he met Jake Fizzario at a gas station.

Mostly it’s been duct tape, glue and chewing gum. A fix here, a blog there, a facebook post, maybe a tweet with a #. And we waited. Surely, someone has got to come. Free, always open, everyone welcome. Like a neon sign in the desert we expected, at least, a wayward, weary traveler or two.

Then calamity struck: Google has removed images from their RSS feeds.

Curses!

We’re told there’s nothing that can be done.

Did we ever tell you about the time we got a call back from the producers of Shark Tank?

We sent them a crazy video and never heard back from them again.

To quote POTUS: “So sad.”

Maybe we’ll drop a dime.