The Dick Mallet

My days of blogging have come to a sorry end, dear reader. To celebrate, I hereby finish with my beloved Sunday Mallet, daughter of Fib Sunday, cousin to Haiku Saturday.

Families are funny things.

The last edition of the Sunday Mallet began several weeks ago. Japanesewhispers left us with cock. The first word which came to mind: dick.

Please, my lamb. Play on.

Se7en

I've been tagged by Raquel.

Here are the rules:

Firstly, post these rules and a link to the person who tagged you.

Secondly, share seven facts about yourself, all devastatingly interesting.

Lastly, tag seven people at the end of your post, linking their names to their blogs. Follow this up by advising said parties of the tag in the comment section on their blog(s).

Seven things about Minge:

My mobile telephone number is +447841831579.

I've had a cough for ten months.

I don't like thrash metal.

I have no spleen (to speak of).

My Mother wanted to call me André, but my Father couldn't pronounce it.

I hate the SNP and everything that the isolationist bigots stand for.

I've never been to the southern hemisphere although I long to and would adore standing on the equator.

I'm tagging David, Moncrief Speaks, Bill, Salty Sailor, Krafty Bitch, Simon and (Japanese) Alan.

Fall

Spring forward, fall back. That's a good way to remember what to do with the clocks each Spring and Autumn. I mentioned this to my sister-in-law last week and we wondered why the third season of the year is never described as Autumn in the United States of America. I say we. I was doing the wondering. No conclusion was come to, although I was told that the word Autumn is not unknown to Americans.

And so, dear reader, the clocks will fall back in the early hours of Sunday morning. The sun will rise at 07:10 and set at 16:42 here in Edinburgh, affording most people only nine and a half hours of daylight. For me, that number will be much less as I hardly ever rise before 09:00. Worse still, we have 22nd December to look forward to with only six hours and fifty eight minutes of daylight. I'll end up with about three or four, I think. A far cry from the seventeen hours and thirty seven minutes we were blessed with on 22nd June.

The point to all this? That there's nothing much to look forward to at this time of year. It's all downhill from here on. And if one more person tells me that Autumn is their favourite season because of all the lovely colours, I'll abuse them. Physically, of course. I'm too old for sexual shenanigans and emotional torture is not something I'm terribly good at.

I'm just marching time.

But isn't that what we do throughout our lives? From the quickening inside the womb, we're just waiting to draw our final breath.

And Mum always told me to never put off until tomorrow that which I could do today. I'm just a useless man.

Car

I remember the day my Father and I went to pick up the new car with such clarity.

It was a very warm week day. Dad was not at work. My school holidays were in full swing. His break from work had just begun. My skin was a warm brown. His was as white then as mine is now, Britain having bypassed anything close to a Summer this year.

The hairs that made up Dad's wig were rigid. They did not move. All thanks to hairspray for men. Mum's was cheaper and did the same thing, but he refused to use it. The year was 1978, a year in which many gay men were seen sporting lumberjack shirts. Some straight men wore them, too, one being my Father. The shirt was mainly cream in colour with horizontal and vertical stripes of differing thickness in a colour my Mother would describe as brick. His trousers were navy blue; polyester. The belt was plastic and dark brown, as were his shoes, though leather and not plastic. I was six years old and wore, as many a six year old did at the time, open toed sandals or Jesus boots. Some boys in my school told me they were girls' shoes. I wore beige shorts and a white short sleeve shirt.

Mum was washing up at the kitchen sink as Dad and I left for the bus stop. I'd never seen Dad on a bus before, only ever in a car, taxi or van and naturally assumed he'd never taken one in his life. I felt very important thinking I was about to educate my father.

"Bye, Mum!"

Mum kissed me, holding my face with her hot, soapy hands. Bubbles clung to my cheeks.

The car showroom was in Winton, the Moordown end, so we took the number 31 from Fernheath Road. Dad allowed me to believe he'd never been on a bus before. I persued the rôle reversal by instructing my Dad to hold his hand out when we saw the bus come around the corner from Coleman Road.

"And when we get on, you have to say one and a half to Winton, please. The driver will tell you how much you have to pay."

Our wait under the dappled shade from a front garden tree was short. The yellow bus soon made the corner and Dad did exactly as he was told. We stepped into the bus from beneath the tree briefly passing through the vivid light and the warm August sunshine. Dad got the tickets as I waited to dispense the coins he'd given me into the driver's plate.

"This way," I said, climbing the unpainted metal stairs to the top deck.

We sat at the front of the bus, me next to the window, Dad at the aisle. He lit up a fag, took a deep draw on it and sighed. The red plastic seats burned the backs of my legs and I fidgeted.

"This side," he said, winking, and gesturing with a side nod of his head to cross to the opposite seat where we'd find shade from the hot sun. He swapped seats, I followed. This meant I was now sat at the aisle. Mum would never have let this happen, but I said nothing, wondering if perhaps Dad thought I was more grown-up than Mum imagined me to be.

I sat up straight, holding onto the chrome bar before me across the wide front windows of the bus.

"We'll be back in Turbary Park soon," I said, Dad nodding, drawing more on his cigarette. "Then we go up through Columbia and Ensbury Park."

"Oh?" said Dad, feigning interest, staring ahead into space.

I delighted in being right. Children of six often make claims which bear no fruit. But not I. Not today. Columbia Road. Ensbury Park. Moordown.

And then Winton. The first stop in which, was for us.

The showroom contained three cars. All the same (to me), just different colours. I remember it being stiflingly hot. I had no empathy for the man greeting us then, having never worn a suit and tie myself, but here he was, in one and in something of a greenhouse, too, the whole of the frontage being made entirely from glass.

I don't think that anyone in Britain would have even heard of air conditioning in 1978.

"Mr Tapping!"

How did he know my Dad?

"Sit here," said Dad as he wandered off with the man in the suit into a dimly lit space which was too dark for me to make sense of. I sat there on the fabric and chrome office chair for what felt like an eternity. Dad didn't come back. Neither did the man.

Just as panic began to set in, I heard the beep from a car's horn. Looking out into the street, I saw a blue estate car with my father sat in the driver's seat. He was grinning from ear to ear. I leapt from the chair and mouthed shall I come out?

"Yes!" called my Dad, whom I'd heard perfectly.

With no man in a suit so say goodbye to, I heaved open the heavy door from the showroom and raced across the pavement to the car. The passenger window was wound down completely. I rested my crossed arms on the open space and smiled at my Dad. Then giggled.

"Get in," he said.

So I did.

I was happy to be in a brand new car but sad on realising Dad was Dad again and I was the little boy once more.

"You alright?"

"Yes, Dad."

I loved the sound of the engine. Although loud, it seemed quieter than our last car. Another Datsun and the same model, although blue in colour. I wasn't sure about the colour. Our last car was orange and I preferred that.

The noise and the change in the tone of the sounds coming from the engine as Dad moved up through the gears were fascinating.

"Let's go on a drive before going home," said Dad.

We went to Poole. I remember passing the large Barclays Bank building near the Arndale Centre. The next thing I remember was Dad lifting me out of the car back at home in Turbary Park Avenue. I'd nodded off.

I still like to sleep on car journeys, long and short. Some things change, some stay the same, dear reader.

I'm alive. Dad's dead.

Imagine

Ha!

Ha! Ha!!

And...

Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!

Good morning, dear reader and welcome to the catch-up edition of The morbid adventures of Minge. Unlike Captain Oates, I've returned, although I was some time.

I must say, though, at this point. I'm quite uncomfortable with the grammar there. Captain Oates' famous statement, "I may be some time," has always bothered me. How can a person be time? Was the captain hinting at something, that he was/is some kind of deity? Or maybe a well-loved time traveller with a penchant for Earth and Britain?

My recent video blogging adventures were a fun exercise and I really enjoyed doing it, as did Ian. He was the mind behind the camera; the director, editor and interviewer. One of the questions put to me came from David. He asked me to name my favourite Asian dish and suggested I should be filmed while cooking it. As ever, I'm keen to oblige. You can see the results, my love, in the previous three entries, here, here and here.

Oh, and for my anonymous reader who requested it, here's Mrs McGinty's recipe for Cinder Toffee:

You will need

• 200g caster sugar
• 100g golden syrup
• 40g goats' butter
• 1 tablespoon water
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon cider vinegar
• 1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

Method

1. Line a small baking tray (I use an 8" sandwich tin) with parchment paper.
2. Place all the ingredients apart from the vinegar and bicarbonate of soda into a heavy bottomed pan. Put on a medium heat and stir until the sugar has dissolved.
3. Bring to the boil and heat until a teaspoon of the syrup becomes a soft ball when dropped into a cup of cold water (138°c on a sugar thermometer).
4. Remove from the heat and add the vinegar and bicarbonate of soda. Beat well and watch the toffee mixture foam up.
5. Pour into your prepared tray or tin.
6. After ten or so minutes, once the toffee has begun to set, score it with a sharp knife into portion sizes according to your personal taste.
7. After approximately twenty more minutes, break your cinder toffee along the lines and store in an air tight container where it will remain in good shape for up to ten days.

Experiment with the flavour by replacing the vanilla extract with other extracts such as almond, maple or similar. I've a mind, next time I make it, to replace the extract and the water with a double espresso! I've done quite a bit of travelling throughout the isle quite recently. Much of October seems to have been spent on the roads and rails of the United Kingdom.

The first part of the month took Ian and I to London. We stayed there with our fabulous friend Robin who was kind enough to put us up for a long weekend. Pictures of which can be seen here, my lamb. We went the whole hog and did all the things tourists do; a cruise on the Thames, a trip to Buckingham Palace, a wander around Trafalgar Square, took in the neon lights at Piccadilly Circus, explored some galleries, visited St Paul's Cathedral, toured Television Centre, saw some shows and so much more besides. The shows we saw were Les Misérables, Avenue Q and Wicked. I plan to blog about these, at length, later.

Before leaving the topic altogether though, I will say that all three musicals were absolutely fabulous, well produced and provocative. Human (and animal) relationships can be peculair. I'm left wondering if it's true that everyone's a little bit racist (more later), if wickedness is as black and white a situation as it's often painted and who would be the better king of France should the monarchy there be restored? Louis, Henri, Charles or Nicolas? Which man would you chosse, dear reader? Or do you feel a woman would do a better job?

I'm sure, really, that wickedness is indeed not so black and white. There are many shades of grey in the mix, as is proven by my late Father who died on 11th October. He might have been evil personified to my Mother, Mark (my brother) and I, though he obviously wasn't those things to his second wife or she'd have not been able to say these things. Having said that, she was and is able to lie (his family will NOT miss him - see here). Why she'd want to lie, now, though, I'm not sure. If he was cruel to her, she'd have no need to publish such a sickly-sweet goodbye. Perhaps, after meeting her, he'd become too old to fuck around with other women and pick fist-fights with his friends and relatives?

I was lucky and happy to be in Bournemouth for the week following Roy's death. My presence stopped my eldest brother from using my Mum's house as a hotel, accommodating his appearance at his Father's funeral. Cruel of him, I'm sure, to ask (and he did) my Mother for a bed for him and his son while in Bournemouth for the funeral. Does this man have a heart of stone? Like his Father, does he have no conscience? Did he really expect my Mum to give him somewhere to stay so that he could attend the funeral of the man who made her life a living hell? I'm sure there's irony there somewhere, though I don't care to look for or expose it.

I'm sure she was prepared to, but my presence but a bar in his way. He doesn't speak to me since I confronted him about opening personal correspondence between me and his son and questioning his motives in taking my Mother on foreign holidays.

I wondered if, even though we weren't attending the funeral, we'd be sad and melancholy on the day or open a bottle of champagne. As it was, I'm currently taking anti-biotics for yet another chest and sinus infection so champagne would have been off the menu. Come the 18th October, we'd kind of almost fogotten what was going on until people started turning up at home, wondering how my Mum was. The only person not to come or call on the telephone was my eldest brother, Ken.

We were neither happy nor sad about his death or funeral, though I will admit to being sad about him in general ever since hearing of his death.

As hinted at before, he wasn't utterly wicked. The movie made of his life would be littered with violence and abuse, both of the physical and emotional sort. However, there would be the odd happy scene. I remember him yodeling in the Alps, drawing with me at the kitchen table, showing me how to saw oak and taking me to a restaurant for the very first time at six or seven years of age.

I used to wonder and think that perhaps he wasn't so terrible after all, though I soon changed my mind when I saw the looks on the faces of the people in whom I was able to confide. Good people don't systematically abuse their families on more levels than I knew existed. Good people don't sleep with their wife's family. Good people don't serially cheat on their partners. Good people dont beat their children to a pulp.

He was an actor, too. On divorcing, friends of my parents couldn't believe such a couple could or would ever part.

"But Roy's such a great bloke..."

He could charm the birds out of the trees, buy gifts for his friends' children and be the life and soul of any party. Birds may have been charmed, but we were repulsed. Any Christmas presents, shoes or school uniforms were paid for by the money my Mother earned cleaning during the evenings. In my Mother's words, usual gatherings of my immediate family were given, "...the golden silence treatment..." by my Father.

"Silence!"

"Be quiet, I'm watching telly."

"Go outside and play and stop bothering me."

He's been a major topic of conversation for many years. I really wonder, now, how we'll fill those gaps in conversation. I'm sure, with things more cheerful.

He may have gone and this will do many of us some good, but what will not go are the memories. His snarling face. His awful temper. His fist. His flying kicks.

On some level, his wild behaviour was never as difficult for me to cope with as it was for Mum and to a certain extent, Mark. Apparently, he got worse as time went on. The violence and screaming was normal to me. For Mark, weekly beatings and slanging matches became a daily occurrence. For Mum, a lady who grew up in a home free from hostility and full of love and gay times, her married life must have been an absolute nightmare. Like a story from a soap opera which builds and builds over a few weeks, Mum's life descended into reasoned anarchy over thirty or so years; an anarchy which, however she's tried, she's been unable to recover from since the old man left us cold an penniless in 1981.

I'm still undecided if I'm happy or sad. I can't generalise, though, and find being black and white quite difficult. I suppose I feel grey. I have decided on two things, though. I shall write a memoir in two parts:

My Father and other monsters

and

I remember Mama

I plan on starting next week. Any tips will be gratefully received.

Bournemouth wasn't all doom and gloom, of course. The highlight was spending time with my Mum at and outwith the bingo, my wonderful niece (see evidence of that here, here, here and here), other family members and friends.

Following on from my evening watching Avenue Q, two conversations made me ponder more about the racism issue. Auntie Lil said that Britons are able to be so openly and unapologetically racist because we've never lost a war in modern times and that military superiority implies cultural superiority. No-one in Germany could get away with doing the Nazi salute or calling anyone a money-grabbing Jew. However, people in Britain are called Wogs, Spics, Yids, Pakis and Wops with no-one batting an eyelid.

With my Mother complaining about the number of Poles and East Europeans in the country, my American sister-in-law piped up with a reason why she doesn't want her daughter to learn Spanish. My sister-in-law is fabulous, though a little naive and easily led. She told me how her Father, a Methodist pastor had told her how copious amounts of Mexicans were flooding the United States of America with their extended families, taking from the state without putting anything into the economy and refusing to learn English. Strange for a man of God to have not heard of the story of the good Samaritan.

Always unresolved... I still imagine a world full of good people, though I wonder if it will only ever exist in my imagination. My Mother was grateful, I'm sure, for the home the UK gave her when the German army invaded her home island in 1940. Native Americans - did they complain about white settlers taking and not giving or not learning Adai, Coosan, Tunica or similar?

Will history always repeat itself? Until we learn from it?

You may say that I'm a dreamer (some say I am), but I'm not the only one.

Cook #3

Cook #2

Cook #1

Great idea. Why don't I steal it? (Part IXd)/Mrs McGinty's Cinder Toffee

La dernière partie:

Great idea. Why don't I steal it? (Part IXc)

No acid house, sadly, though I hope that this (or this) might make up for the lack of said musical style.

Great idea. Why don't I steal it? (Part IXb)

Part two, dear reader, in which I go deeper. Deeper than ever before!

Would you like to join Minge?

Click on the play button! Go on, you know you want to!

Great idea. Why don't I steal it? (Part IXa)

Today, dear reader, is National Coming Out Day. A good day, then, to come out with answers to questions recently put to me. The video below contains part one and lasts just over seven minutes. I'll upload part two shortly.

By the way, forget the Euro. I've seen the future and it's the quid.

Harajuku

Be Gwen. Go on, you know you want to. I do.

Great idea. Why don't I steal it? (Part IX)

Guten morgen, dear reader.

Nuns can be violent!

To celebrate the third anniversary of his blog, David recently invited his readers to submit questions which he then answered in a videocast. I plan on doing the same, recording the video in perhaps seven or so days time.

Until that time, please leave your questions for me here in the comments section or email them to me with questions in the subject line.

Ask what you like. Go on, you know you want to.

Everybody loves a sequel, even if it's plagiarism.

Shadows

Medium shadows; now long and low
Tickle me and usher me in
To write poems
And order laws to repeal themselves

A warning shot fired overhead
Arithmetic, yes, wet clothes
The numbers seem to paint
Scenes from my childhood

The Land by Vita Sackville-West
Was a square peg in my round hole
Whittling it down
Was done under our club tree

No words were spoken then
But nests were made
As big sister played
First day at school on our first day at school

The Ice Mallet

Having decided, by the tail end of last week, to buy a new computer, Ian popped into Scotsys in Glasgow on his way home from work last Friday and picked one up.

We are now the proud owners of a new iMac.  It works like a dream and has been no trouble at all.  Although it promises to whip some up.  New house, new baby; new computer, new virtual presence.  I've taken the plunge and invested in a .mac account.  I get an email address, the ability to instantly upload from iPhoto to the web and a huge chunk of web space...  I'm thinking of using it to blog.

On Saturday, Ian put together a highlights package from my niece's eighteenth birthday party.  Thankfully, my singing is unheard.  Without going too far down the philosophical road, reliving the experience of being a woman, if only for an evening, has me once more wondering what it feels like for a girl.

So, dear reader, that was Friday and Saturday.  Today is Sunday and time for The Sunday Mallet!  If you didn't know, it's a word association game played out in the comments section. For the original instructions, please click here.  For something vulgar, please click here.

Last week, Salty Sailor left us with vanilla.  The first word to pop into my mind: ice.  Now, my love, it's over to you...!

Girls

Lists

Regular readers of this blog will know that I'm a fan of lists and am mad for constructing them. Not having done so in a while (I've resisted temptation so many times to avoid being predictable and boring) and being inspired to do so by this article, here is my current top ten most fabulous albums:

10 Cindy Lauper - The Body Acoustic
9 Bent - The Everlasting Blink
8 Amy Winehouse - Frank
7 Sarah Brightman - Dive
6 Kate Bush - Aerial
5 Saint Etienne - So Tough
4 Sandra - My Favourites
3 Madonna - Confessions On A Dancefloor
2 Liza Minnelli - Results
1 Pet Shop Boys - Behaviour

I am a fickle person, though, dear reader. If asked to compile this list yesterday or tomorrow, ten different entries might appear.

Radio 1 is soon to be forty years old. That's only a few years older than me! Scarey! Of course, with that in mind, it's no surprise to learn that the station has long since ceased to be my favourite. When tuning in now, usually by chance, I quickly spin the dial again on hearing nothing but a horrible racket. Queer. That's how my Mother used to describe it when it was the only station to which I'd listen back in the 1980s.

Actually, that's not quite true. I'd sit at the old hi-fi with my finger poised over the play and record buttons on the cassette deck with the tape wound to just the right place, where clear ended and brown began. Sing Something Simple would end and the Radio 2 continuity announcer would hand over to Radio 1 in FM. And the top 40 countdown would begin!

Once a good song began, I'd start recording and pause on a beat just before I thought Bruno Brookes was going to start speaking (talking over the music really cheesed me off). If something came on that I didn't know, I'd record it anyway. If, halfway into the song, I realised I didn't like it, I'd rewind the cassette and cue it up, again, right on a beat so that seamless playback was guaranteed. Usually, pause on, pause off, just to lose Bruno. How, now, I wish I'd kept him. And all those C90 cassettes.

Once the Network Chart programme began on 2CR, I'd sometimes flip between stations, just to see which station said my favourite song of the day was doing best. Pet Shop Boys often did better on the BBC resulting in me berating the Kid Jensen fans at school for their poor taste.

I wonder if anyone listens to any singles rundown programmes anymore. For me and other people of my age, such shows were the only place we could hear our favourite music in good quality sound. These days (There I go again, sounding like an old fart) the youngsters can find their favourite music at the drop of a hat on interactive television, You Tube, the internet in general, virtual jukeboxes and a myriad of different radio stations.

And I suppose, my glee in hearing the UK's forty top selling singles in crystal clear FM is comparable, now, with, well, nothing, only perhaps the omnipresence of music to any listener's ear where ten years ago we had to go into a shop, hand over money and take a CD home with us.

In the 1980s, I'd have to wait all week to hear the music I loved. In the 1990s, I had to wait as long as it took me to go into town and then back home again on the bus or on my motorbike. Now, gratification is instant. If I want something, I can click and have it.

No wonder, then, that we've all run out of patience and the world is an uglier, grumpier and less desirable place to live in.

How strange that a trip down memory lane over the way I listened to the radio could produce something vaguely philosophical.

Italian

I began the second day of my adult education programme yesterday, dear reader. At ten o'clock, Digital Imgage Editing for Apple Macintosh Computers kicked off with half the machines out of action. Of the machines that did work, half wouldn't allow a user to login. Of those that did allow a user to login, half failed to launch Photoshop elements. Meaning two people were able to take part in the class, fourteen were not. So our very impatient, joyless, stern and severe tutor sent us home.

I did not go home. I went to Henderson's for a lunch of vegetable curry with brown rice and then on to Costa opposite The Mound for a double espresso. While there, I switched on my mobile telephone and found I had a voicemail from Pat. I called her back. She'd been ill but no virus was able to squash the enthusiasm she has for her grandson's theatre career. She spoke to me about his appearance in Footloose with a vivacity rarely heard these days.

Shit. I know I'm old. Only old people say these days.

I'd have taken the opportunity to see him in Footloose while Ian and I are in London next week, though we're unable to. Our free time does not match the times he's on stage. So that's that. Traurig aber wahr.

From Costa, I walked across to the National Theatre of Scotland to begin my history of art course. I did wonder if we'd begin with cave paintings, but we did not. No, instead, our introduction was with medieval Italian art. We spent two hours looking at approximately six paintings. How, I'm not sure, but our delightful tutor had a lot to say. She was always interesting, insightful and brought a realism to the art as previously unseen. It was quite clear to me and to the other seventeen middle class ladies in my company that Agnes has a love for her work which most working people would be jealous of. Not only love but passion.

Gunk

Guten tag, huren!

Did you see Tribe last night? It was fabulous. Just when I though biofuels might save the planet, I'm shown how they're actually wrecking it.

I went to see Dr Bermingham (not Birmingham) this morning. We discussed my ongoing chest/coughing/mucus problems. I told him that I've a notion I'm allergic to dairy. Or at least, I have an intolerance. Or maybe wheat. My ever fabulous GP told me there's only one way to find out. I have to consume some and see what happens. But in a controlled experiment, of course. The only trouble is, I don't want to. I've avoided wheat and dairy since yesterday and to be frank, I'm fine. Well, not perfectly fine, there's still a wee something up, but nothing like twenty four hours ago. At its worst, I feel like I'm drowning in gunk, my throat is killing me and I feel more depressed than a lesbian with super-long fingernails.

I'm not too worried about this. Dr Bermingham (I think his name is Mark) told me the symptoms of such allergies/intolerances usually manifest themselves pretty quickly. They can dissipate over a period of hours, sometimes days, sometimes weeks. It all depends on what my body doesn't like and how it's reacting to it.

Of course, it's still not a given fact that I am allergic to a certain foodstuff or group. To be sure of this, I have to have an allergy/intolerance test which I will arrange soon (it's not available on the NHS).

And he also explained that the unusually high number of sinus and chest infections I've suffered with this year can all be explained away by the disgracefully large amount of mucus I'm producing because of this allergy. It's a perfect breeding ground for viruses and bacteria. The nasty airborne cunts fly into my nose and throat when I breathe in and immediately find a nice home for themselves, somewhere wet, warm and full of food. Then, I suppose, they start having it off and having babies. Yuck.

At least I now know it's not all in my head. I was beginning to wonder. No, seriously. A cough can irritate the back of the mouth and throat. And an irritation can make for a sore throat. And a sore throat can make the best of us cough. See how my mind works, dear reader?

I'm to go back and see Mark in a few weeks. He told me he'd be interested to know how this develops. How kind.

And his likeness to Salty Sailor is as deliciously disturbing as ever. It's uncanny. Incidentally, you should click here for his very interesting article on air transport and taxation. And while I'm on the subject of blogs, my comedy partner has just begun a new one: Broken Chalk.

I thank you.