This dude is cramping my style. My writing style, to be exact. Motherfucker. Really. Motherfucker.

Back when he was a touring musician he wasn't all that into this blog. Oh, he was complimentary when pressed for comment on a recent entry I happened to be all puffed up about. He really dug reading about himself too. The good bits, I mean. Not the I-want-to-stab-him-in-the-eyeball-and-bury-him-in-the-backyard bits. But in the grand scheme he really didn't place a lot of stock in the blogging business. In fact, he avoided the internet like the plague when I got into that sordid business with his ex-girlfriend via blogging. Shit. Who can blame him for that? Weren't those months years a giant kick in the ass? Christ, I'm still talking about that bullshit in therapy.

I still remember discussing blogs with my dear friend Xmastime at a bar in Brooklyn one muggy New York eve. Between sips of Pale Ale, Serge could hardly force himself to pay attention for more than five, ten seconds at a clip. Blogging. He'd make fun of all the time I spent tapping out my little missives and often used my time spent blogging against me. Mind you, I fully expect him to deny this behavior, that's just the way marriages work. And don't mention blogs to brother Dave. They're complete shite. Until he decides to start one, I suppose.

So here Serge is... Blog, blog, blogging away. Which is great, really it is. Each blog a beautiful, lyrical treat. A boon to our daughter's virtual treasure chest. But he writes so much better than me. Me, the one who was all, I'm writing a book and I've got an agent and blah blah motherfucking blah.

I'm still here. Still prowling around, alternately swooning and seething over Serge's literary skills. Just suffering from a fairly serious case of writer's cramp.