Yeah, I know.

I haven’t really felt like writing. Probably didn’t need to anyway, anything that happened to me in the last few months that might have been interesting was in the papers. Not much of that even.

Nevertheless, you know how I’m feeling right now? I’m feeling like a few months after someone you cared about died or maybe that much time after a big breakup or like, you know, Woody Allen when he doesn’t have to appear on an awards show in “Annie Hall.” My appetite’s coming back, the tree outside is making my heart make an attempt to smile. Life is flowering within me for a few minutes at a time. Then I want to go back to sleep, perhaps the only one of my desires that generally gets fulfilled. Could be depression, could be I’m still sick.

But forget about that, you’re not my therapist. Anyway, I never got to tell you where we went after Henry Waxman’s Superbowl party and I really wanted to. See, there’s this wonderful dairy farm in Maryland, near where you take a ferry into Virginia, that somehow breeds cows to naturally produce different colors of milk. I know. Amazing.

They don’t use high-tech genetic manipulation, just good, old-fashioned cross-breeding to select for desired characteristics. But here’s the great part — they put flavors in the feed to make the milk taste more chocolatey or strawberryey and then they keep the cows in a cold barn, so you can squeeze a kind of soft ice cream right out of their udders! If I get to be in Congress for 35, 40 years, like Henry, I’ll know all the great places too!

But I’m letting my mind run away with me. We all know that’s not going to happen. The primary is tomorrow and I’m not on the ballot.


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