Missing Time

I'm alive. Where am I?

Where have I been? As Jerry Lee Lewis once answered the same question to Nick Tosches, "I don't remember. I was a ramblin' man."

I've been cutting a swath with my psychic scythe through salty seas and smoky saloons, searching for answers. "Waiting," in the words of that meat man Raymond Rohbeson, "for an excuse."

Just like my good friend and bowling partner Bill Henrickson, I've been beset from all sides by trials and tribulations, by Judases and Jezebels, by unseen forces and enemy entities. But yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil.

Okay, well, that, and I've been in the process of moving.

Like the Dick Cheney, I've relocated to an undisclosed location. One where a man can sit on the veranda in the nude and read comic books and sip Jefferson's Reserve and build a levee, brick by brick, gulp by gulp.

I haven't had internet access for the past few days during the transition and the chaos, so all blogging but the most etheric kind has been out of the question. But I'm now back in black.

Thank you for your patience, dear reader. Transmission resumes in T minus ten seconds and counting.