I usually check Mudcat in the morning right after I check my e-mail, then move on to my day's writing (working on a book, an occasional magazine article, and a still fuzzy idea for a novel), but yesterday I was out for the morning. I didn't check in until afternoon, and found Mudcat floating belly up at the top of the tank. Later, when it rose, like Lazarus, from the dead (to scramble the hell out of a couple of metaphors), I checked the threads about the Northwest Folklife Festival to read the latest posts, then checked the threads Marty usually pollutes, but found he hadn't said much of anything that merited one of my brilliant sallies.

By the way, thank you, Marty. One of the minor things I did miss yesterday was an opportunity to throw another harpoon into your sorry blubbery butt. Since you usually respond with such satisfactory bleats and whimpers, recently I've come to value our little exchanges of mutual esteem as a good five-finger exercise to begin my day's work writing. But no problem. By the time I returned home from my earlier activities, the day was pretty well shot for writing anyway. So be of good cheer; contrary to popular belief, your existence does serve a worthwhile purpose in the Grand Scheme of Things.

I wouldn't say I'm addicted, but I do miss Mudcat when it's down. I know, Marty, I know. Missing Mudcat on these occasions makes wusses of us all. But so be it. You might check the mote in your own eye.

Don Firth