To pluck a petal from the bloom of friend and recondite commenter, Don Reedy, I’ve been ‘face down in a slope of iceplant’ for 30 days. Yes, iceplant. (I’ll let the man himself expound a little later but allow me to tempt you with the essence of his yarn—- it involves a houseboat in San Diego, a Belushi Halloween costume (including handcuffed briefcase), and a lost weekend somewhere in the bowels of the 1980s. Un huh.)
You see, I too have been on a pastoral quest of sorts this month and presently find myself scurrying through the Bloodhound shadows to slip this flimsy piece under the Big Dog’s door before the triple witching hour tonight—June’s last breath. I take a peek around the literary pound and am relieved to find that my WordPress password is still active and that my name and mugshot are still posted on the BHB sidebar. Only a handful of hours remains between me and blanking an entire month on the hallowed front post page. Hopefully I’ll push Publish before the final strike of Midnight and keep the holy streak alive. Admittedly, I’ve been remiss in my self-imposed dogmatic duties.
So this is what has gone down since I last posted Mother Nature is not a MILF on May 30th (an essay written mostly on my iPhone that netted a total of 6 unique comments including a few of my own trite responses). I pooled my talents, sunk my literary savings into a mental Ponzie marketing scheme, and found myself nearly wiped clean from the blogarian grid as I danced 30 days straight ‘with the one who brung me’ to this economic station in life to begin with—real estate sales. Eleven of them to be exact. I’ve never done eleven of anything in a single month much less an activity involving commission checks with accompanying deposit slips. And now, after eleven hard money contracts written and/or Closed in June, I come crawling back to my digital workspace on knees and elbows on this last day of the month, famished and thirsty for Google juice; mind, gut, and Adword Read more