The Return of the Suitably Red-Faced and Horrified No You Can't Watch

JFC, is it already April? 2007?

Mucho shame on me. Lo siento, y perdóneme por favor.

I should go crawl back under my little toadstool and hush, but No, You Can't Watch will not, I repeat, will not, end up like a plastic grocery bag on a barbed-wire fence, condemned to helplessly flapping about for eternity. No, You Can't Watch is back - maybe not with a vengeance, but a slight whimper.

My not-so-half-assed excuse for my hiatus is starting a fiction class last October, and when that wrapped up right after the new year, following it up with a novel writing class - both of which kicked my ass, and in the best possible way. It keeps me sane and off the streets. But now that the second class has ended, this means there'll be no excuses for not keeping this sonofabitch up from now on. Oops.

There's loads to catch up on and dish about - all contained within various entries started eons ago: L.A., Provigil for The People, crushing out on Richard A. Clarke, why "Black Snake Moan" and the Pretty Baby exhibit at the Modern in Fort Worth are totally worth your while, and how Amy Winehouse has come along to steal my heart at just the right time, only to name a few. You'd think this had turned into a g.d. obituary page. Sheesh.