Bill Barol

Word from home is that my typist and flunky, who's apparently had little to do in my absence except chip away at my Black Maple Hill and crack wise with Debbie and Skip, has made a half-hearted return to blogging. I guess you could do worse than go take a look. I mean, I guess you could, I don't know, get loopy on prescription painkillers and some sort of rotgut Arabian hooch and end up driving a rented Aston-Martin at a high rate of speed through a souk at three AM trying to get away from the Dubaian cops or something. But that'd be really stupid, and anybody who did that would probably be feeling fairly contrite by now, even if he was too proud to actually, you know, say it.