A while back, Ms. Jones offered me the opportunity to post on her blog. I told her that when I had something worth saying, I’d give it a shot. I had actually come across something that I wanted to post today, but there are more pressing matters to attend to.
Along with Emily’s last post, a Mr. G.G. has decided to grace us with his presence in the comments section of that post. Mr. G.G., if you would like to discuss your problems, I can be reached at email@example.com . If you would like to discuss them in person, please feel free to come to St. Paul and I would be more than happy to meet with you and iron out any issues that you may have. Whatever your intended desire was, you have only managed to anger myself and several of Emily’s friends, but I do look forward to hearing from you.
Today I’ve received a series of threatening and abusive e-mails from someone who appears to have objections to one of my links. They’ve left me drained, angry, and disgusted at how truly off the rocker some human beings can be. I’m going to take a break from this whole blogging thing for a while until I can put myself back together and hopefully get this maniac off my back. Please visit the other blogs on the left, all of them by top notch, classy folks.
This is a little off-subject, but personally, I've never understood why republicans have such a hard time with the idea of disbanding the IRA. After all, the sooner they shut the doors on The Francis Hughes School of Cop-killing for the last time, the sooner Gerry and Martin can get busy propagating the lie that they never existed to begin with.
I had lunch with a few bloggers last Sunday - Asparagirl, visiting us here from NYC, her old man Scott Ganz, and the World's Biggest Ego, a.k.a. Pejman Yousefzadeh. Asparagirl is just as smart and lovely in person as she is on her blog, and Scott's this really lively guy who can quote long chunks of Monty Python skits without missing so much as a single word or mussing the accent. Pejman got us in good at the Persian restaurant in Westwood where we ate by speaking Farsi to all the staff and waiters, so we were allowed to eat our meals safely knowing that we were not digesting a bitter cook's spit, or that our filets were not raked along the bottom of someone else's shoe before being arranged in a nice pattern and served (I've worked in a lot of restaurants in my day - this happens a lot; enough so that I could tell a few stories that would turn the hardest "I don't cook" bachelor into Julia Childs).
Scott and Brooke only let us pitch in a couple of bucks for lunch (thanks, guys!), and only so after Pej and I threatened to put a hex on the life of their firstborn. The next time you haul your sweet cookies out to L.A., Ms. Brooke, get in touch, and dinner's on me. Or Pej. Preferably Pej. Thanks, again. It was fun.