Dear habitués of The Bobosphere,
It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to you directly, and I do so today for three reasons: The first is that I spent the past week with Covid, which did not kill me but pounded me like a new dock piling. My headache alone was a 5.6 on the Richter scale. So I’m still a bit shaky and not much in the frame of mind for fresh commentary.
The second thing is, what better time than a week in which I’m offering you nothing new to remind you that I depend on you — not just for the revenue contributed by paid subscribers, but for all readers’ generous apostling. Bully Pulpit has no advertising budget. Our marketing consists entirely of readers sharing these pieces within your networks. Shares and comments; that’s what keeps this operation vital. Obviously, I wouldn’t presume to dictate the nature of your commentary. Not gonna put any words in your mouth (although terms such as “staggering perspicacity” or “transcendent humanity” or “not always tiresome” do fit snugly in the comment field).
And finally, along those very lines, I saw Sunday that someone on Twitter linked to a piece I did eight months ago, one of the last few Bully Pulpit podcasts — notable not because it was a classic example of BP ethos, but rather because it was a departure from our founding promise. It also will make you bleed from the ears. I offer it here, to fill the gap as I finish my convalescence. May it saturate you with rage. Click on the link to revisit “May You Suffer for Your Crimes.”
Then if you would be so kind, Tweet the motherfucker far and wide.