Once again, I pause at the the end of the blopathon to savor the view. I can't say this feeling is quite as exhilarating as last year, when, to a much younger blogger, all things seemed possible. As I examine my psyche now, I can't help but feel a little bruised, mostly because of the chaff I thrust forth into the world over the past month. Lots of posts start with seemingly good ideas that are later exposed as sucktastic, and these posts are rightly shunted off into some alternate limbo-cache, retrievable by only the most adept techsmiths. But when you're blopping, you can't afford to discern. You type it, out it goes, and it either soars off with the rest of the flock or you scrape it off the road. Que sera sera.
I do, however, again feel tempered by the accomplishment. After all, I lived to see the end of NaBloPoMo 2.0, but Evel Knievel did not. If I can survive something that one of the world's most indestructible sumbitches can't, that must say something for my ruggedry, right?
[Rest in peace, Mr. K. Enjoy your rightful place at the head table in the Pantheon of Crazy.]
Fittingly, I'm preparing to celebrate my surging machismo as most of us he-men types do: with an evening of wine tasting and musical theater. My friend Michael is an expert on one and a fan of the other, so he wrote a piece that will have a limited run on the Upper West Side. We have also been promised six wines to sample during the performance, which means we'll at least all be 1) drunk or 2) spitting in unison. Either way, it should be memorable.
