Last Tuesday — BC Château, Somewhere in The Alps

J-ho is out working on his slalom for the time trials in Grenada, and I’m mopping up on the terrace, cleaning up after last night’s merrymaking. There’s those little black cigarettes the models were smoking mixed in with sticky shards of stomped gin tumblers. In the corner, Burt Bacharach is naked, crumbled up in a puddle of his own vomit.

Through the Champaign hazy of the Swiss morning, it hits me — didn’t we use to have a website?

We didn’t get into blogging for the fame and opulence, but it all came so easy, shit just got out of hand. One minute you’re typing about the foibles of post-grad ennui, next think you know hopping on your private jet to bail Dakota Fanning out of Turkish prison.

Did we go to far? Did we fly to close to the sun? Did we pay that guy who played “Cockroach” on the Cosby Show ten grand to grab Barbara Walter’s tit?

Possibly. Snorting Rozerem and unimaginable power do strange things to men.

Anyways, we’re back to settle some scores and reconnect with our roots. God and the demands of running an international media empire willing.

Enjoy.