Only one thing could bring me back into the blogging lifestyle. Starts with an N, ends with an ose hose. Aka the neti pot. Like her, only with perkier, non-yogi boobs, tipsy off nose hose and sparkling white wine, with a giant smile on my face. I have been absolutely miserable from allergies the last few days and have held off on mainstream meds and their resulting side effects, but luckily the neti pot has cured all that ails me. Salt water in one nostril, the timorous feeling of inhaling the entire Great Salt Lake in one fell sweep followed by the relief of it easily flowing out the downward facing nostril, irrigating to completion. The nose hose is simultaneously terrifying and miraculous.
About the blog: For a year I wrote and entertained groups as disparate as wildebeasts from Papua New Guinea and men named "Papi" from nyc housing projects. Then it got me into trouble. My dad is very wise and kind and says that I may be an "Artiste," but maybe I should stop, think about what I've done, perchance learn a lesson, and remember that this thing the younguns call "doing arteestic things" could eventually be aligned with my real name and ruin my chances of getting ahead in business. I should learn a lesson from the downfall of one public figure after another. But then the Lord Browne thing hit the press today, and hey, if the head of BP is going down, I want to go down with him. At least I don't have a scandalous gay sex partner lurking in my background, ready to destroy me. There's still time.
And how can I stop something that's become an extension of myself? If it worked for Dana Vachon, why can't it work for me? My name is Papi and I want a book deal.