In case you haven’t noticed, this blog has lost its luster as of late. Normally, a dearth of missives like this is due to my own malaise, a self-induced state of mind in which I grow so mopey I can’t summon an update to save my life. This time, however, I got a better excuse… I’ve been on vacation! That’s right, me and the sheilas fled to the shore, laid in provisions and swore off shoes for more than a fortnight. It. Was. Awesome. Now that I’m back, though, that voice in my head tells me it’s time to re-light this candle, for other than long walks on the beach, dictating pith and vinegar is one of my favorite things to do. Trouble is, I get stuck. Chalk it up to the fact that I been stone-cold postin’ since 2004 and on regular occasion even a gas-bag like me runs out of wind to spend. Aren’t you glad you didn’t pay for this? I’m not! But that’s a subject for another post, something I’d like to think I have a multitude of in my future. See, this temple of insolence I call The Lenslinger Institute is just a fun-house filled with mirrors, a rambling, abandoned manse I like to traipse through whenever I’m in the mood to reflect. Historically, that’s been quite often, but the older I get the less compelled I feel to write. It’s an affliction I miss, though members of my family tell me I’m easier to live with when I better regulate my dreck. Perhaps the cape and scowl were too much.

Anyway, if you’re still reading this, chances are Twitter is down and Facebook is full of photos showing how hot it is in your friends’ automobiles. Either way, I appreciate it, for while I’m not gonna show you a feline-themed inspirational poster, I’m not above trolling for house-cats in the search for suitable satire. But wait – there’s more! We got crippling heat, maniacal live trucks and a scheduled affair with a certain Miss Britney Spears. After that, there’s a Democratic National Convention just down the road and you can bet I’ll do my best to avoid it. Yes, there is much to look forward to in the coming months. I may even weasel my way to the lip of another hurricane, where I can safely lull you into a stupor with meandering dissertations on the nature of Granola and the soul. Look for it! Meanwhile, I promise to stop staring at the horizon so much, lest I sink into the shifting sands of my own ambitions and once again have to start digging out one loathsome post at a time.

Whadaya want for nuthin?