A quiet night on ice.

Ahoy.

Gadzooks, it's been a haul.

I sat on my wobbly barstool last night, watching the christmas lights swirl around my head in a slightly sickening pattern, and came to an empty-hearted love of all humanity that sits and swells around, my chest blooming in unearned adoration for my fellow man.

It could be that I'm in San Francisco, in love with life again, patched up enough to resume my sloppy affair with her, that which become like beddeath in Seattle, cold rainy, fridged. It also could have been that I had polished off my second Wild Turkey.

I guess this is all to say that I know I've been latent in my comic production, I haven't had an art show in a year, and my blogging has been sporadic at best. And for this, to you, my loyal seven readers, I apolgize. But it is about to change. It is in the works.

In two days time, SBC will bring the wire of life and fire and photos and theivery and mypopic narcissism into our living room, and we will be freed of our pathetic coffeeshop existence, eeking out a few minutes time on our laptop as the Russian barista blasts Tim McGraw for the 29th time.

I can't wait!