Do I Look Fat In This?

In a fit of anniversary frenzy, I gave my blog a makeover and now I'm not sure how it looks.
I mean, did I go too far?
I thought I'd lighten up the place a bit. It seemed so dark every time I came in.
And those damn palms dropping fronds everywhere; they just had to go.
But really, did I go overboard?

I chose blue to complement my eyes.
But gee, Is it a bit garish? Does it make me look fat?

What about the orange accents?
I went with Orange to punch things up; it's the new black you know.
I kept the green because well, it's my color. Plus, you know me, old gushy-in-the-blog,
I can't resist the idea of connecting the new to the old.

Do take a look at the new additions to the "Friends" list. Although I probably broke sixteen statutes of the blog etiquette protocol, I listed several new links to some entertaining blogs. Some are friends, some I've just stumbled upon while travelling the blogosphere. Let's hope the authors don't get sue me for lack of permission. Interested in the trials and tribulations of a newbie teacher? Click on Bender's Place. Want an easy-to-follow recipe? Click on Well Fed. Need a dose of exquisite humor? Click on Space's Place. Good art? You've got to click on Vera. For even more fun, check out her links. That will keep you from getting your work done. For a really random adventure check out the Cool Guy in Austria link; I'm not sure what draws me to his site, but it is worth a trip or two. Want some advice in the boudoir? Scroll way down to the bottom of the page to the Adults Only section. Smut and Stuff will help you and maybe even inspire you.

But really, all the changes aside? Do I look fat in this?

Happy Anniversary to ... Me!

I don't know about you, but when a significant event occurs in my life, its anniversary can be equally significant. Doesn't matter if it's meeting Mister Right, the first days of a new job, the extrication of my gall bladder or the birth of my children. With an eerie precision, the feelings and memories of that time gently waft their way into my conscience as the memorable, or in some cases not so memorable, date approaches.

I always make it a point to embrace these ethereal feelings because they remind me, ever-so-vaguely of who I was and who I've become in the time that's passed. My strengths and weaknesses are magnified and my intentions come into full bloom once again. It's good for the chakras I tell you, good for the chakras.

What, you must be wondering, has got me all gushy-in-the-blog this time?

It's my blog anniversary! Happy Anniversary bon blog!

True to form, I've been preoccupied this past week with the joy I felt a year ago today,
when with the help of a friend, I established my own little piece of web-estate. In the weeks that followed I suffered with a kind of joy that I can only compare to falling in love and that resulted in many sleepless nights and more than a few manic bouts of extreme energy. The rush I got writing and putting a up post had become intoxicating; not to mention a bit addicting. There were days at work when I'd sneak to the computer every couple of hours to check on my blog; no small feat considering I was teaching in a classroom without a computer and the nearest "fix" was a public-domain gig located two flights of stairs away from my classroom.

Although my contributions to the bon blog have been less frequent than those first few months, I don't want you Dear Reader, to think I'm all done with this writing thing. I still experience the same lovely little rush every time I put up a post. Writing is still the thing I'd most like to do when I have a few minutes to myself. And, if I were to post a list of all the things I'd still like to write about, I'd have to create another blog just to hold all my "first lines."

And if you're wondering: Yes Dear Reader, I am still a comment whore.

Scott Boras

A Question of Ethics

Even though I loathe what he's doing to Major League Baseball salaries, is it wrong to want Boras's help negotiating my upcoming contract renewal at the 'factory?'

Congratulations Zito, I hope you'll be happy on the other side of the Bay. Oh, and could ya have Scott give me a call? I'm pretty sure he'll want to hitch a rope to my star and get some of that pocket change I'll bring in.

Lesson Learned

Okay Universe, I get it.

Life is what you make it.
Energy makes energy.
Cross your t's and dot your i's, your life is rich and full.
Fail to fill in the details and you can't help but notice that nagging feeling that something is missing. Put energy into your efforts and you will reap rewards twofold. Fail to exert energy and you will fail to have energy.

See? I get it.
What's true for life is true for anything, right?
Raising children? Friendships? Relationships? Work?
And ... Christmas?

That's why I couldn't find my Christmas Spirit.
I just didn't put enough effort into it.

Most years, I go all Martha on the family.
I make sure the lights go up Thanksgiving weekend.
I get my family out to our favorite tree farm and watch in awe as my men chop down a tree right before my eyes. And even though he resists every time, I insist Mr. bon take us for hot chocolate on the way home.

Once the tree is up, out come the twelve boxes containing our tree decorations, charming knick-knacks (some new, some even passed down from my grandma) and of course, the special, used only once a year, Christmas linens.

After the house is decorated to the nines, we start wrapping the gifts that were purchased with thought and care and place them just so, under the tree. We don't use just any gift wrap. It's usually brown craft paper festooned with bright ribbons and handmade bows, then adorned with tags handmade by the bon-lets.

If you look closely, you'll notice that everything ties together to fit the charm of our little cottage of a house. The bon's don't mess around with Christmas, people. We do it right. T's crossed, i's dotted.

This year was different.
Although the lights did go up a day or so after Thanksgiving, the tree was purchased at Chubby and Tubby on Aurora. Eegads!
The boxes came out, but only the tree decorations were used. Every other little doo-dad never even left its container and all were hauled back out to the shed. It should have been a clue, no make that a big red flag, that something was up when I told him, "I'm just not that into it," as he patiently made his way back to the shed toting the twelve oversized boxes.

Nobody seemed to notice that the gifts were wrapped differently this year. Nor did they comment on the fact that in some cases we used a "sharpie" for a tag!

In fact, if it weren't for me and my oversharing tendencies, I'm not sure others would have noticed that Christmas was different this year. The bon-lets were cool; they seemed to have a rewarding and warming holiday season in which they both gave generously and received handsomely. In some, probably many, instances, Mr bon was no doubt relieved to simplify things a bit. In my case, all those materialistic details are an indication that the forces are swirling and a certain manifestation of the spirit of the season, and of life.

Looking back, I see that I did put some out some effort. Quite a bit of effort, actually. I did fill in the details, I did charge the air with energy and I did reap rewards twofold ... I just did all that at work.

That, Dear Universe, won't happen again.
From here on out, the lesson becomes one of balance.

Dear Universe,

Yoo Hoo ... Need a little help here.

Will the entity that burgled my Christmas Spirit kindly return it?
Promptly.
Time is running out and I do have children, ya know.

If this is some kind of joke, I consider it cruel and not funny.
Get my drift?
Now bring back my spirit, dammit.

Zeroing on Zito?

I wonder.

Occasionally, my evening commute takes me past the Mariners' front offices above Safeco Field. On dark, winter evenings I can peer into the fourth floor windows and see the dapperly dressed execs working away on... something.

When passing those windows at 6:30 on a Friday night in early December, as I did last night, I wonder, "what are they doing up there?"

Could they be receiving faxes and other important office-type communique from Bavasi who is struggling through the winter meetings down in Florida? Is he asking them to calculate how many hot dogs they'd need to sell in order to bring a big-league pitcher to the Safe?

Please oh please, Bill, give us fans a ray of hope in these dark winter months.

I'll buy a hot dog, maybe two.
Just give me a competitive team to watch while I'm eating it.

Close One

In what I can only describe as a dangerously close brush with parenting, Mr. bon and I were put to the test this week. No need to fear, I am delirious to report that we escaped unharmed. This time.

The child in question was the eldest of the two bon-lets; the boy.
Said boy was invited to this Thursday's winter blow-out concert, Deck the Hall Ball put on by the local rad radio station. Call me conservative, call me overprotective, call me what you will, but when the headliners are Gnarles Barkley and My Chemical Romance and the gig is going down at the semi-massive Key Arena, I'm going to think twice before I allow my 14-year-old -boy to get jiggy with it amongst a gazillion chemically enhanced strangers -especially on a school night.

I won't go in to all the details except to admit that the deal was pretty well thought-out by the instigator's parents and involved door-to-arena-to-door transportation. I was assured that, "security these days (since 911)" is very tight. To which I responded with, "no, I don't live under a rock" and, "yes, I have ventured beyond Lyle Lovett and gone to a hard core rock concert in the past 2 years."

And I will admit to you I did go through a full range of emotions. Which I believe it started with, though not uttered audibly, "No freaking (er, something like that) way!"

Then a sharp turn at "I don't care if I'm the nerdiest mom on the block, my kid is not staying up til one freaking (yes again) a.m. on a school night for a, yes you guessed it, freaking, concert. That definitely is not good parenting."

With a long pause at, "well maybe, if he wants to go though he better not choose this week to retreat into teen silence and shrug his shoulders when I ask the important questions such as 'what interests you about this concert?' 'who is playing?' 'is this really something you're willing to spend your hard-earned money on?' and the all important, 'is this a special girl?' "

Then finally, after a consultation with the hippest mom I know, and a fair bit of perspective and persuasion from Mr. bon, I came to, "well if he can make a case for it and show me some enthusiasm I guess it's time to make this leap and let him go."

But the kid is cool.
Way cool. Cool as a cucumber.
Cooler than ice water.
Cooler than I'll ever hope to be.
When we found a quiet moment to have the talk; you know, the one in which he would convince me that there was no freakin' way he was missing the concert? he flat out shocked me.

"I changed my mind. I don't want to go."

He went on to tell me that he wanted to be "pumped for Friday, because it's well, Friday" and that "I can stay up late listening to my own choice of music any night I want."

In a moment of rare parenting brilliance, I bit my tongue, closed my mouth, and smiled. Then I told the boy how impressed I was with his intelligent decision.

Silently, I thanked him for letting us off easy. This time.

I'm Not Gonna Lie ...

... I Walk the Line is the sweetest love song ever written.

... there are times when nothing will do, quite like a glass of red.

... there are times when nothing will do, quite like a glass of red, unless it's a cosmo.

... Mr. Bon is freaking hot when he wears a black turtleneck.

Entanglement

Why I choose to tangle with the written word,
I'll never know.
Its sticky web entraps me so.

Just as I inhale,
all the clever and apt words,
line up,

letter
by
letter,

and march right
out of my brain
through some secret portal
probably located just behind my ear.

Waiting in the wings
are the replacement words:
the evil twins.

Have you met it's and know and there?

I have.
And even so,
every time
their ticklish ways lure me in.

Hot Dog!

Foodies. I love them.
I embrace them.
Why, I count many of their ranks among best friends.
In fact, I consider myself a bit of a foodie too; if I do say so myself.

Food, and the art behind it's preparation and consumption, has been a passion of mine since I was the summer of 6th grade. While reading Better Homes & Gardens one day, I stumbled upon a recipe for Rosemary Chicken that I couldn't pass up. What in the world I was doing reading that 'zine, I can't tell you. But while my friends were reading Tiger Beat, I was serving a delicate breast of chicken to my parents for dinner, and a chocolate mousse cake for dessert.

I am happy to report to you that the concept of foodies transcends cultural boundaries and is one of the better, and definitely unexpected, perks of my new job. Nearly every weekday morning I am the lucky recipient of some of the best Asian comfort food you can imagine; or breakfast, as the twenty-some Chinese woman who take turns preparing these delights refer to my midmorning snack.

According to some elaborate (and probably not so complicated if you speak chinese) schedule, these woman take turns making what is their first meal of the day. They are at their sewing machines making tote bags, aprons and duffels so early they don't have time to eat at home. So, ingeniously, they've pooled their efforts and have breakfast at 9:30 every morning. Yes, you could set your watch by it.

My first encounter with their collaboration was my second day of work. Shing, who normally puts zipper pulls on bags was tending to "something" in the kitchen. First, I noticed the incredible aroma that filled the whole building with the warm, comforting smell of rice cooking in chicken broth. Then, when I went to get some tea, I saw the chicken, cilantro and peanuts awaiting their opportunity to contribute. If it weren't for my status as a foodie, I would have been suspicious. Instead, I waited patiently, properly and silently for my invitation to partake.

I had to wait two, long weeks before Elaine brought me a bowl of "congee." Each morning before that, I had to endure the fantastic smell and smile quietly at the women as they passed to the kitchen to get their breakfast. The only thing holding them back from inviting me to join them was language. The only thing keeping me away, was my good manners.

When Elaine (the best English speaker among the women), finally summoned the courage to approach me with a bowl of "their" food, she offered it gingerly. It was all I could do not to pounce. The look on my face gave way to the fact that I, like them, was a food person. Didn't matter what culture it came from. I was eager to try the "soup" and she could tell. Her mission was a success, and I was accepted.

Congee, it turns out, is a rice soup. The Chinese version of a hearty porridge. The rice is cooked in an excess of broth to an almost mush state, then the chicken is added and allowed to simmer. At the very end, add the cilantro and raw peanuts. Have this for breakfast, and you won't need much for lunch. Needless to say, it is both delicious and satisfying.

From that day on, I have been treated to fantastic gingery humbow, a noodle version of the congee and an deliciously odd cake sort of thing. Think: agar- but with both sweet and savory flavors. It is tasty, but extremely rich; I can never eat more than a couple of bites.

Breakfast took a little twist this morning.

I chuckled to myself when I saw Mei, a grandmother among the sewers, walking to her work station with a catsup smothered hot dog smothered in her hand. Amused by the image, I wondered where in the heck she got that thing and why she wasn't eating with the others. After a quick trip to the fax, I came back through the sewing room and saw that each and every sewer was sitting at her machine chomping on a dog. I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

Soon, Carmen brought one to my boss, a self proclaimed, fellow hot dog lover. Before I knew it, I too, was gobbling down a dog at 9:30in the morning. And guess what? It was a delicious, foodie approved dog!

"Po-rish sau-rage I got from Safeway," Carmen told me as I munched away.

Needless to Say...

... Dubya is an embarassment.

... the GOP frightens me.

... you should V O T E today.

Shadows

I looked for you in
Portland last weekend,
but you were nowhere to be found.

I was certain you'd be at Powell's,
in the dark aisles of the Blue Room.
I pictured you mingling
with Proust and Updike,
maybe Angelou.

I wondered how it would be
to spend the afternoon strolling,
the leaf-strewn sidewalks of 23rd,
holding hands, getting close,
snuggling under autumn's cloak.

Then later, I thought, after a show,
we could stop by Elephant Deli
for a bottle of red and a late night sup,
to share back in our room
along the riverside.

I looked for you in Portland,
though you were nowhere to be found.

On Faith

On Friday,
you asked me
about my God.
I politely ignored
your query and
listened in silence as
you mentioned your
struggle .

On Saturday,
left to wander about
the house looking for proof,
I wondered if I seemed
shallow to indulge in
a life without bibles or pews.

On Sunday,
while moving the earth
to make way for the
bulbs that won't
produce their red blooms
for at least six months,
I found,
my answer.

Ode

Do you remember
that night
at
Market Street
when we shared
a bottle
of
Pinot?

It was
warmth in
the
cool of autumn.

The red worked it's magic over my tongue
and swirled round in my head.
The label I can't recall.
But the feelings I do.

Chill Time

"Chill out, whatcha yellin' for,
Lay back, it's all been done before
And if you could only let it be ..."

That's Avril Lavigne goin' out to all you cool cats taking naps in your cars on your lunch hour, setting up new homes or working 5 days instead of your usual 4. She's telling you to keep your life un- complicated. It's summer time; the livin' should be easy baby.

Chill out.

That's what the Bon's are gonna do. We're heading south to Ashland to take in some plays and some of those super-hot, triple- digit rays (and those fabulous gin lemonades they serve at Beezey's Back Porch Barbeque). Except for one. The eldest Bon-let is staying up here in the cool north to be an All Star, he's got to:

"get his game on and go play...."

... baseball tournament. Keep an eye on him for me, won't you?

Catch you on the flip side, daddy-o's!

And Now A Word From Hillary

No, not the senator. My niece.

Of all the roles I have in life, being an auntie is just about the best. Maybe it's because I've been one for 35 years. Or maybe it's because my nieces and nephews are, got to say it, the bomb. Not only are they cute, charming and witty, they're smarties too!

Although I could write lengthy posts touting the the talent and accomplishments of each and every one of the eleven darlings, today is about Hillary; or Hill, as I like to call her.

She's just been accepted to Chapman University and will start there this fall after spending most of her summer traveling in Europe. She wrote a teriffic essay for her application to Chapman that is a spot on commentary of the pressure we place upon today's students.

So with out further delay, please enjoy today's guest:


The Game of College Admissions:
GO DIRECTLY TO COLLEGE, DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200.

In a world where the college admissions process is a game, knowing the ins and outs of the rules may just be your "get out of jail free" card. In Monopoly, there are three ways to get out of jail: You can choose to take a chance and try to roll doubles, use a "get out of jail free" card, or throw money at the right people.

The same rules apply in the game of college admissions first option of taking a chance on your true personality and ability is often disregarded, as more and more people seem to be taking the other two options. While hoping that who you really are should be enough to stand up against the competition, it is unfortunately idealistic and naïve, and does not tend to be the reality.

These days, even the best of actions comes with enlightened self-interest. Rather than act with intentions of doing good for the sake of doing good, people think of the resume benefits or the potential college essay that they can churn out, milking the situation to show how they alone can save the world.

In order to write a typically good college essay, you are forced to have a passion and exploit it. By age fifteen you must have overcome a major personal obstacle, and by age seventeen you should have discovered a miracle cure to some debilitating disease. By the time you are a senior in high school, you should be a candidate for a Nobel prize and have attempted to single-handedly save a suffering village in a third world country, and in your spare time, take classes at the local colleges while still maintaining a GPA of 4.0 or higher.

The college application process is nothing but a game where students are forced to jump through hoops in order to show their "qualifications". Just as in the game of Monopoly, the "get out of jail free" card can be bought and sold. Students are advised about which aspects of their profile need to be bulked up. Don't have enough service or activities? Find an organization, any organization to participate in, or join in the first school club you come across, regardless of your interest and investment in it! Need to improve those SAT scores? Pay hundreds of dollars for a tutor or prep class to train you months in advance! Need a good recommendation? Pay a private admissions counselor to write one for you! Really want to attend an Ivy League but don't have the grades? Buy the school a new wing, and you're in!

In this way, the student's profile is easily bought if you've got enough money to throw around.The college admissions process has successfully destroyed the integrity of our educational system. The goal of high school is no longer to learn, but to get good grades, by any means. Going to a college preparatory school, you learn quickly that no one cares how hard you work, or how much you know, all they care about is the grade that you get. Cheating on everyday assignments is a means to an end that has become socially acceptable among many students. We have lost the value of hard work because the emphasis is no longer placed on process, but simply on result. Do whatever you can to get that A.

Surviving high school in one piece is an amazing feat in itself. Since it has been decided that no one cares about the agony you go through in order to achieve, often times, the immense amount of academic pressure pushes students into unhealthy situations. Staying up late and pulling all-nighters occurs on a nightly basis, and caffeine is typically the teen drug of choice. In some cases, students may even turn to more serious and illegal drugs like speed or ADD medication in order to keep up with the high paced expectation. Mental and physical health is put on the back burner while rigorous coursework push you into a stumbling stupor. Education-induced emotional breakdowns caused by pressure and extreme stress become an acceptable normality.

More and more teens are losing the so-called "best years of their lives" to their college ambitions. These personal sacrifices, however great they may be, seem to be worth the long-term benefits of getting into the right college and ensuring a bright future.

In the end, each student applying to college is faced with the three Monopoly-esque choices. You can attempt to gain a "get out of jail free" card by cheating your way to an A and giving your resume some extra padding, despite your investment in the added activities. You can throw money at the right people, and drop the right names, almost guaranteeing admittance, despite your true qualifications.

Or you can choose to roll the dice and take the chance that maybe your hard and honest work will get you somewhere, proving that you don't need to cheat in order to win.

What a Concept

This ad was too much to overlook.
When you click on the Finola Hackett link below, you might see it pop up too.

You too, have a chance to win a mother daughter makeover!
What can this mean? As you know, Dear Reader, I am definitely down with logging some serious spa time; and with my mom and daughter if need be. I'm all for the mani's and pedi's, the massages, the hair color ... well gee, I don't think there is a spa treatment I don't like. So when I see an ad for some free services, I might be just a little tempted to take a peek. Perhaps it was my mood at the time, but the wording of linked ad hit me the wrong way and struck me as flat out odd! I read it like this:

"Not satisfied with your mom or daughter?
Here' s your chance!
Click here and our experts will make her right over.
Got flaws? We'll fix 'em!"

Sorry mom, sorry little Bon-let. I ain't clickin'.
I like you both just the way you are!
Hope you feel the same.

E-x-c-e-l--l-e-n-t

I hope you and 30 million other people tuned in to ABC last night to watch the Scripps National Spelling Bee.

I hope millions of people flock to Blockbuster today with the intention of renting Spellbound and The Bee Season only to find out that millions of other people got there first and took those very movies home already.

I hope millions of other people wake up this morning, march straight to their Netflix account and load these two movies into their queue.

I hope spotlighting a kid's intelligence becomes a mainstream trend.

The spelling bee was unlike anything I've ever seen on the television and I hope to see more.
The thirteen teenagers who'd made it to last night's final rounds, although under tremendous pressure, were impressively self-composed, confident and demonstrated maturity beyond their years.

Not to mention humble. As a mother who goes a little bonkers when her boy hits the ball out of the ballpark, I couldn't help but notice how both parent and child took the spelling of such words as tmesis, hukilau and dasyphyllous in stride, as if it were no big deal. Spelling ursprache is the baseball equivalent to hitting a grand slam. Believe me, when my kid accomplishes that feat, you'll be hearing me scream and shout all the way to your neighborhood. Without the benefit of broadcast on national television.

By the way, do you even know what these words mean? I know I they've never been uttered in conversations with my friends and family. And that was the impressive part. These kids probably hadn't heard or seen many of these words before either, but because they have been spending their spare time studying word origin and all the wacky rules that one must consider in such endeavors, Kerry Close, Finola Hackett and their fellow competitors could rely upon their knowledge and spell just about anything.

Don't get me wrong. I am a sports fan who can't log enough time on the bleachers watching my kids participate in gymnastics, baseball or soccer. I am tremendously proud of them. You know that.

But really, our society is out of balance when it comes to priorities. I doubt the network big wigs thought twice about broadcasting the Little League World Series. Can you imagine the conversations and lobbying that went on in the boardroom at ABC when they were considering whether or not to broadcast the spelling bee? In prime time no less!

Congratulations to ABC for making the courageous decision to give Americans the opportunity to cheer on some big- time -smarty adolescents as they went head to head (or should I say mind to mind?) in an intellectual kind of sport. What a refreshing change of pace.

And congratulations to Kerry Close, who in her fifth appearance at the Scripps National Spelling Bee, took home the big trophy and well over twenty thousand in cash and prizes. You go girl, you "stellar speller," you!

L-OST

Is this happening to anyone else?

The stamp on one of the keys on my keyboard is slowly fading away.
In my case it's the 'L.' Maybe for you it's some other key that's becoming harder and harder to read, say the 'A' pad.

'A' would make sense, but 'L?' I don't consider it a high-use letter for me. Neither the Bon-lets nor Mr. Bon have 'L' in their names. I don't write much about lunatic lushes lavishly languishing their labido on lanky lovers. But maybe I should. It rarely occurs to me to pen something about, the Latino laborers in Louisianna, or even Los Angeles.

Yet, there it goes. It's very difficult to see the key when I'm typing in the dark; I don't want to scare you, but finding my homepad is a nightmare without the 'L' to anchor me.

Is it some kind of metaphor for my life? What could it mean? Maybe I'm not destined to live in a an L-shaped house. Maybe it's a warning. Perhaps I should avoid foods that begin with 'L.' On the contrary, maybe I need to ingest more lettuce ... and liquor!

Yes,that's it! Of course. The fading 'L' is a clear sign from the universe that I'm not getting enough of the red in my life. It's so obvious now, I must drink more wine.

Pitty the poor soul who's 'K' is slipping away. Would you want to increase your consumption of kohlrabi? Not that there's anything wrong with kohlrabi ...

The Daily Write. Right.

All the great writers: Calvin Trillin, Anne Lamott, John Updike, Billy Collins and even Sue Monk Kidd, say the secret to their success is to sit down and write something everyday. Everyday.

Right.

Don't these people have jobs? Or kids? What about laundry and groceries? Apparently their children don't play baseball or soccer. They probably don't even have a budding, bilingual, gymnast residing in their house.

And by the way, the daily write can't happen haphazardly, or left to chance, or the whim of your muse; the daily write should occur everyday at the same time.

Right.

Lamott says that this practice coaxes "the mind into a routine." You've heard of muscle memory? Well, this concept applies to the creative process too. Apparently when you sit down at your keyboard, or your table by the window, at the same time everyday, this cues the brain to bring forth the eloquent phraseology and the witty commentary. Who knew my cerebellum had a memory?

Right.

My friends over at transcendental floss tell me when they write everyday the process gets easier; much easier. spaceneedl even says that putting the fingers to the keyboard daily "keeps his writing sharp." I agree, his writing is sharp.

Right!

As you know Dear Reader, I am a comment whore. And as you know, Dear Reader, you've stopped leaving comments. It's as if you are waiting for something fresh and new to comment upon. So write, I must. Everyday in fact.

Alert my muse will you? As of this posting, I'm committing myself to sit down at my computer each morning for the next week or so, sip my coffee, and post something. Something worthwhile, I hope.


Right!
No, make that:
Write!
As in:
Write damn it, Write.