When you’re awake (and no doubt on something) naval gazing at 2:31 in the A.M., you wind up with blog entries that conclude on strange notes such as this: “By the way, I thought about calling this blog hugegapingvagina.com, but I figured somebody might read it.”

Don’t look at me, I didn’t write it.

Last evening, my wife and I went to a party given by a few of our “experimental” friends (who before completely changing dimensions were kind enough to put out cocktail weiners and a veggie platter stocked with the tiniest carrots I’ve ever seen) — and, though altered sensibilities reigned supreme by evening’s end (yes, y’all — I still insist that Fred is gay as a french horn, that Daphne is horny as an Asian chick on prom night, and that Scooby’s “speaking” is a direct result, narratively, of the viewer’s being thrust into the role of Shaggy’s shadow shortly after he ingests whatever it is those in the 70s ingested when plotting to solve murder mysteries from the back of their psychedelic, communal van), we never once, none of us — not my wife and I, not our chemically reconfigured friends, not one of the several freakish humans whom I’ve never before seen but who somehow drifted uninvited into our little party world (“Uh, are you going to finish that brownie, dude?”) — thought to say “hugegapingvagina.com.”

Which is why, as my Easter gift to you, I direct you all to the Treacher man, who’s unconventional musings on the nature of opportunity and motivation make a fine and instructive (albeit relatively brief) Sunday read.

The wife and I are off to our yearly Easter Sunday brunch, thrown by a husband-and-wife poet team who, for the seventh year running, will refer to the melon they’ve chopped up and scooped into a fancy serving dish as a fruit salad. “Would you like to try some fruit salad, Jeff?” the hostess (a delightfully upbeat gal from the west coast) will ask, smiling, eager — poised over my plate with a giant serving spoon heavy with melon chunks. And for the seventh year running I’ll say, “Sure, Christy. Some fruit salad would be wonderful” — though all the while I’ll be thinking, that’s not ‘fruit salad,’ for the love of God! It’s a melon. Just call it a melon.

Later in the day, drunk on Bloody Marys and cheap Champagne, we’ll sing Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” at the top of our lungs. By four o’clock, it’ll all wind down, and the wife and I will say our goodbyes and come home for a nap.

Which is a long and roundabout way of saying that I won’t be blogging much today.

Have a great day, everybody! Hug whoever it is you like to hug, kiss whoever it is you like to kiss, etc.

But most importantly, thank whoever it is you’d normally thank for your not having been awake at 2:31 in the A.M., thinking, “By the way, I thought about calling this blog hugegapingvagina.com, but I figured somebody might read it.”

[Update: Yes. I know Heather’s site is “tinylittlepenis.com”. So what? When I hear the phrase “tiny little penis,” “hugegapingvagina.com” doesn’t spring immediately to mind. Not to my mind, at least. What springs immediately to my mind is something along the lines of, “you sure we’re looking at the same thing, honey?” or “stand back, it’s angry.”

Besides. I’ve been drunk as a sailor for going on three days now. I won’t even remember writing this.]