AH! Behold the journal, the child of negligence, birthed only to be abandoned. Point is kids, I've been busy. Like every single night I'm gone busy. To live is to commit suicide.

Something curious:

I was at the Tulsa World about two or three weeks ago when I stopped by to say hi to Andy, who was casually typing away seemingly oblivious to his themed apparel. This was: A plaid shirt, overalls, and a hat. He looked like Huckleberry Finn and I laughed. A few days later he e-mailed me saying that he was trying to achieve a look more reminiscent of Serpico rather than the brainchild of Mark Twain. He mentioned something about how he should have worn dungarees instead of overalls. So on Monday I gave him a very silly poem . . .

To Andy the Copyeditor:

While walking through the dreary halls,

I spied a man in overalls.

He had no hay to chew upon,

nor a wooden raft to don.

He travels far in newsroom land,

the nomadic editor with dexterous hands.

He rights the wrongs of all the staff,

he moves a letter; "it's bathe, not bath."

In respect to editing we'll pay our dues,

to him we credit the literacy of me and you.

So gather round as we knight him in applaud,

all hail the one called Andy, Huck, and God.

Another title we might bestow,

just one last entity,

we might call him Serpico

if only he was wearing dungarees.

Well, I wish he'd e-mail me back. I'm wallowing in great ennui right now and I could use some vestige of contact. But I'm tired; I want to read. And once again, I am leaving my child in the ghetto dumpster to fend for itself. Live long, dear journal. Learn the ways of the streets and prosper.