Too much crap.

I've wanted to blog, at length, about the bankers who can't fathom how they'll squeak by on $500K a year, the holy smokes reaction to Michael Phelps taking a bong hit for Jesus, the annual celebration of musical manure that is the Grammys and, on a positive note, how I dreamed the solution to a vexing problem with the novel.

But lo, there is no time.

Because right now my life is full of crap. Crap by the bucket. Crap by the truckload. Crap by the steaming ton.

If you had a job that was a Mardi Gras of Craparama, you might describe it this way, as a blogger we know recently did:

...the weirdness, the electric angst, the illogic and madness, the paranoia, the group fistfuck meetings, the shifting alliances, the Sisyphean chores day after stinking day, the synapse sizzling WTF moments when a job comes back the 13th and then a 14th and then a 15th time, the misdirection, redirection and no direction, the fragile egos compensating for the swirlies they endured in high school and the complete, mind-blowing, monkey fuck ass-pucker...

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to be employed. No one wants a 58-year-old writer out there sucking up unemployment, least of all me. And when work is good, it's very good. But when it's bad?

Well, you know.

Lately I haven't had the time to give you my take on events large and small. For that I apologize and promise to try harder.