I haven’t seen this much gallows humour in a long time.
I was standing on the balcony, after having done my daily check of the news, smoking a cigarette, still chuckling at a comic about the pricing of goods, when, mockingly, I comment (to myself) on the state of things by quoting song “Ah, freak out! Le freak, c’est chic.” Now I’m chuckling at my own humour.
My brother used to hang out with some rough and tumble currency traders. The real old-fashioned work-hard play-hard traders, with multiple terminals in a trading room, looking for relief from the tension of avoiding multi-million dollar mistakes. Their other stress reduction solutions made for plenty of stories. Tales of sex, drugs and rock and roll. A world of ex-wives, gambling debts and suspended driver’s licenses. And very good dark comedy.
The brain is loving this, something new to occupy it, to distract it, to keep it from panicking in the midst of it all.
That thought has me singing another song from the gold old days.