Later on, in a few years, I hope to be reporting that Will O’Neill and I have had a super time dashing through the city, crossing against the lights and cadging free rides on garbage trucks. For the time being, though, I’m not only not going to make up stories about grandfatherly escapades (or steal them from Wes Anderson movies). I’m going to treat Will’s visits as sacrosanct — as all but unmentionable. What you can’t see, I can’t say.

I’m reminded of something that happened a few years ago. A very nice French gentleman ran a blog called Journal d’un vrai Parisien. Perhaps you read it, too. The Journal runs no more, because the Vrai Parisien fell in love, and he very prudently concluded that he could not conduct normal blogging activities while developing an intimate relationship. At some point, the lady’s privacy would have to be compromised. Not because the VP had a juicy story that he couldn’t resist sharing, but because the blog simply wouldn’t make sense without a few corroborative details.  

Happily, I face no such dilemma. I’ve got plenty of other stories to bore you with. But if I go silent every now and then, you’ll know why: I’ve been burping.

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
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