There are myriad reasons why I haven't sat down to write in 10 days. Mostly I've spent a lot time navigating by snorkel, buried by the vast and sundry. Buried by work, natch. But also buried by Stephen Colbert, who appeared as Stephen Colbert (instead of Stephen Colbert) at a book signing. Buried by Michael Chabon's book, by R.E.M.'s new live DVD. By autumn leaves that have finally started to fall. By little legs who want to ride the daddyhorse, and by slightly bigger legs who fear being replaced by the little legs and therefore treat Daddy's back as the Mountain of Filial Supremacy.
Especially buried by those pesky baseball playoff games, which beat the crap out of my sleep schedule and after Sunday's win left me hoarse, beer-soaked, and delirious.
So I was buried. But as I thought when I woke up Monday morning and wiped the ginger ale and ketchup off my glasses, it was a good kind of buried.
The good news is I'm rested, I'm relaxed, and I'm rarin' to blop. Who's with me? Can a fella get a what-what?