My friend, Mark, is the type of guy who doesn't go to the party, but calls you afterwards--and sometimes, during--for a conversation that goes thusly:

Where was it? Who all was there? Really? Well, what was he wearing? Was so-and-so there? What did he talk about? Did what's-her-name come? Did she have a good time? Did they speak to each other? When did you get there? When did you leave? What were you wearing? Did they have food? What did you eat? Was it good?

Damn it, man, next time just come to the party yourdamnself.

Anyway, I asked had he been to Hattie's Blog (because even out in "meatspace" I am an insufferable bore) and he said no, and asked QuestionsMark^TM: What's a blog? Is that how you pronounce it? Why is it called a blog? What can you put on it? Do people come to read it? How do you know? What do they look like? (I am assuming blogs, not the people who read them, but I could be wrong.) Where can you get a blog? Etcetera. So, I'm telling him all of this, and happy to do so, because there is no bore like a BlogBore^TM, and in comes my friend Deadpan Ann. Without missing a beat, Mark turns to her and says, "Ann! I love your Blog!"

Mark. You bitch.

So, Mark has a little yapdog, Newton, who is a Newton of the fig variety and not the Isaac kind, I'm thinking, and Mark is so proud of that dog's smarts. To illustrate how very bright the little thing is, Mark will say to him, "Newton! Where's the kitty, Newton?!" And when Newton excitedly runs around in circles gawping skywards, Mark bubbles, "That's so good! You are so smart, good Newton." To which I say, Yep, he's brilliant. . . .'Cause I'm always ducking flying cats. Now, I do have to give it to Newton--that one time he did save Mark from getting arrested. But I'll leave it to Mark tell you that story.