I am one he'll of a lucky fella.

You can let that sink in for a minute with full knowledge of The Cemetery Strangler, breakups by notes, text messages, phone-a-friends, and months of Bev and Elmo shouting insults that would make any Frenchman blush. It's okay. I'll wait.

I'll also take another sip of bourbon. No, no, don't wait up on my account.

I have my problems, which I will not enumerate here for reasons, not least of which is my control over this bog's content with at least a vanadium palm (if not a full blown iron fist). God knows this blog has seen enough of them.

But right now, it's a clumsy (cloudy, rather) dusk in Charleston, and I'm on my orchestra (porch, rather) with a bourbon, a book, and my iPod. I've come from a week with family and the best food ever (because, trust me, Carmen Eileen's Christmas dinner CANNOT be beaten, and my chocolate crêpe mousse cake is no slouch either). I'd put in a picture, but I can't figure out that input with my phone. I'd put up a picture of the view, too, because it is delightful and would give Matisse pause (or whichever Impressionist it was that so enjoyed the Caribbean- I think it was Matisse).

I'm incredibly lucky, and I wish all of you all this and more.

Now stop reading this crap and go do something better.