Annnnnnnd … my descent into the Shanty Irish Existential Vacuum continues, as my friends persuade me to try cheap cigars. (If it’s $1.50 at 7-11, it ain’t no Cuban.)

What’s next? Pot belly? Receding hairline? Wifebeater t-shirt?

I’m going to be Al Bundy by the time the Mary Washington College Reunion rolls around …

“Fickle Muses” magazine isn’t exactly “fickle” if they reject every poem that I send to them. That’s more like … “Adamant Muses.”

Oh, well. They were still nice about it.

From my note tonight to poet Dennis Villelmi:

“[A] failing of mine — perhaps my cardinal failing — is that I am fundamentally distracted by women. If God exists and wants us to be productive writers, Dennis, then why does populate the world with such fair and endearing diversions?”