Giving Wodehouse the Cheese

Okay, fine.  I tried to quit but couldn't.  I'd be sitting downstairs, typically reading the paper, spy something and think "Shit -- I've got to run upstairs and write something about this on the blog."

Then I'd realize I couldn't do that anymore.  And instead of making me feel free, the way I thought quitting the blog would do, it made me feel sad.

A friend of mine told me the other day:  "You're a man with things to say."

Which was a wake up call.  It would be nice to wake up next to Suzanne Pleshette but that's probably asking too much.

Besides, I think she's dead.

Anyway, it was a slap to the head, in a good way.  A cup of the old perk-me-upper, as P. G. Wodehouse might have put it.  I'm reading, with two minds, a book titled "Jeeves and the Wedding Bells" by a guy named Sebastian Faulks, who frankly admits that it's an homage to one of my top five writers of all time.

Or fromage.  Whichever isn't the cheese.