In the 237 summers which have come and gone since July 4th, 1776, the date has increasingly become a juncture for white sales and auto dealer blowouts. In fact, lost amidst the mall madness and car lot carnivals is a simultaneously fascinating and pedantic period of committee meetings, assignations, rewrites, copies, messengers, vote-taking and gallons of coffee, ale and wine. As I currently scribe the fourth novel in my six-part, historical-fiction series of books, Savannah of Williamsburg, Independence Day takes on a more front-and-center appearance than usual as research takes me through the 1750s, well into the meaty burgeoning of colonial revolution.

Happy New Year, Bonne Annee Nouvelle, Nuovo Anno Felice e Godt Nytt År!

As I am only this very moment coming out of my Holidaze and trying to excavate my sleepy Muchness, I fear I am merely scribbling something here so as not to have leftover Christmas ramblings and imagery come Spring Break. ("Great. This is just what I want to do on Easter Sunday ... take down Christmas decorations." -Roseanne)

As I am currently being distracted by an episode of Lie to Me, pending episodes of Deadliest Catch and Modern Family, the distinct possibility that Speaker John Boehner and/or Chris Matthews may weep about something on the news later today (probably both about Sarah Palin), an espresso that is growing horridly tepid and a overall, nagging feeling that I should probably go for a vigorous four-mile walk down the beach, I believe I shall state that This Was All She Wrote. Perhaps a nice musing to round things off this day? Hmmm.

Some kind of high powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.

-the Very Necessary Hunter S. Thompson

Post Script: My blog may appear a wee wonky and rattled in the coming weeks. I am growing ever-frustrated with its photo-sidebar; it is my goal to integrate all apropos images within associated postings ... peut-etre, I will even move my blog altogether. Je ne sais pas.