Uh...Qu'est-ce qui ce passe?

It seems like the initial blogging frenzy is giving way to a more relaxed pace.

I'm reading everywhere that bloggers are getting published: how sorry I feel for the poor souls who, out of curiousity, buy one of these books and sits through something book-length by a blogger, whether it's about their trip to the laundromat or writing a Ethan Hawke type novella.

So without further ado, I'll filibuster to stir Willy into action, telling us all how the housewarming party went and whether that guy's ideal woman was determined that night by whatever system was put into place using Paul's exhaustive list of fuckables:


I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line,
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or pensive mood,
they flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.


OK, no more posting while too stoned to censor myself.