Better Late Than Never

My blog, blog blog blog blog.  The beast must be fed.  It gets cranky and lays on one heck of a guilt trip if it goes without food.  That damn conscious and its cousin the sub.  Always in my ear, trying their best to influence my actions.  I have, so far noticed that I am not a night writer.  It flows much better in the morning, though it could be too early to make the final judgement.  So here I am writing about writing because the substance is currently being blocked by the "events" of the day.  The thoughts and analyzing, the pouting, the regret, all that and more mixed up in that pot of gumbo called my brain. The pride, the vanity.  Sex in a phone booth.  You couldn't guard me in a phone booth.  The Jetsons Meet The Flintstones.  Mince meat pie.  Which, if you didn't know, is really good and contains no meat.  The rumor being it was named that to make the kids not want it.  It worked against me until a few years ago when I finally tried it.  Tasty.  Almost like a Fig Newton pie.  Under pressure.  I shoot my best.  Those back rim misses are the worst but for every one of those there is a lucky roll so you just have to accept them and move on.  The Knicks suck.  Those players need an earlier curfew.  Yes, grown men have curfews.  Sad, but true, and necessary.  Especially in New York City where the bars close at 4am and then underneath the bar is an after party that goes until who knows when.  I have been invited to many after parties but not once did I ever show.  I was that fashionably late.  I never even got there.  Now that is the peak of cool!  Or at least my version.  You can get anything delivered in the city.  Anything.  All you need is to know the right people.  Good night my dear reader.  I give up.  See you in the morning when I have somewhat of a clear head.