I am mostly absent from this blog because I am fine-tuning the manuscript, “I Used to Be French: an Immature Autobiography.”

It’s very time consuming. It’s like when my mother would inspect the boys room on Thursday AM (no school day) around 11:30:

A small grain of dust would jump into her eyes  and have disproportionate consequences on your subsequent happiness.

Speaking of the women we love, my wife said two memorable things before ten this morning:

“I don’t care about the truth.”

” I wish Somerset Maugham were alive so I could marry him instead of you.” (She is a woman of culture. I am flattered to be cuckolded in her mind by a great writer. It’s better  than some Harlequin bodice-bursting novel author.)

I am also working on a part two to my essay on poverty (“Growing Poverty…“).  It will deal with the favorite liberal myths of inequality.