It’s Thursday, and I find myself writing the second essay of the week and posting it where the fourth should be. There are reasons for this. Naturally, with the impending nuptials fast approaching, there are a great collective horde of demands for my time that are feverishly eating away at my schedule like a thousand voracious, consumptori bastards. Every day brings a new decision to make, a new item to quest for, or a new crisis to...

I may soon retire my blogging hat. Then again, I might not. Continuing the blog is something I wrestle with every so often, whenever the call of other projects begins demanding my time and attention. I feel dirtied, sometimes, by the self-conscious shame of the energy I waste here, stubbornly refusing to yield to sanity as I continue to devote squandered efforts on maintaining Coquetting Tarradiddles. It’s not that I don’t...

Sorry, kids. I’m afraid that, until further notice, Fridays will be content-free days for Coquetting Tarradiddles. It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s just that it’s freaking Friday – and I really don’t want to be sitting here, writing yet another essay that most of you won’t read until Monday morning anyway, when you’re back in the cold comfort of your office cubicles pretending to...