I can’t call it “blogging”. I hate that word. It smacks of that pen-protector-set-that-doesn’t-think-they’re-the-pen-protector-set.

It could be just my aversion to Generation Y/Z in general. The “Dude, I Flaked” Generation. That post-PC, had sensitive new age parents generation, that’ll stand there proudly telling you “yeah it was me who chopped down your cherry tree, bro… my bad,” [pregnant pause awaiting applause for honesty], and then they think they don’t owe you a new f#$king cherry tree. Well you do, buddy; go ask your mom for some cherry tree money.

So yeah, I still plan to start writing more frequently I just won’t call it blogging. I know I’ve said that before, my bad.

I’m… well… I’m a private person. That is, I think more than I speak, and I don’t speak much less than I write. 

I’ve had a great idea or two since my last post (nine months ago), but I kept them to myself.

The other day, however, as I was pouring out bon mot after bon mot, like sarcastic champagne (nothing like 18 hours in San Francisco to get the old venom flowing), it suddenly occurred to me that I should be writing this down somewhere. The world, or at least my 17 friends, should know that San Francisco is “the land that July forgot” amongst other (kinky) things. There were other, funnier moments, now lost forever to the sands of time and my failing memory. Like a sex with a stranger on Valentine’s Day or a great night of karaoke, I’ll just have to vaguely believe that - something like that - may have happened once.

Now, thanks to my new iPhone, and the free WordPress app I’ve just loaded onto it, I’m about to burn up on re-entry to the blogosphere. 

Just you wait.

And wait.