Back in the day (you’re familiar with the day, right?), I had a lot of stories to tell. I’d talk a little bit about the bankrobber who insulted my mother. I’d talk about the homicidal maniac who threatened to shove something the size of a toaster oven in my ass. I’d talk about wild nights that were accidentally and serendipitously in Athens, Georgia.

Every once in a while I would wax nostalgic about the time back in the day before that day. I’d pine for the days when I sat on a slab back porch with my college buddies, sipping Coronas, cooking on a homemade grill, and planning the next big bash. On the days when I didn’t think Mrs. Otis was reading, I’d play around with the memories of college flings and the horror they often inspired in my housemates. I’d wish I was still leaving on last-miunte trips bound for the French Quarter where we’d just stand on the corners and casually offer, “Kiss for beads, kiss for beads.” You’d be surprised how many people would take the offer.

Those were the days, friends, when I would post four or five times a week. They were heady, often crazy times where my own life seemed better and more interesting than any fiction I could create. So, I wrote a lot.

I just looked at this languishing site and realized I haven’t posted in some time. I don’t have any really good excuse other than I write all day every day. And that’s not really an excuse. Certainly I could find half an hour a couple times a week to update you on what’s going on at Mt. Willis. And yet, for some reason, I don’t.

So, what’s been going on?

Well, foremost, I’ve been a daddy. That means the drunken days are pretty much lnog gone. Back in the day (either of the days is fine for this reference), it was nothing to put down a 12-pack of beer and a few shots in one sitting. Now, if I have more than a few, I get sort of loopy and wake up feeling icky. I was on my way to slowing down anyway, but L’il Otis has put the ixnay on a majority of the inkingdray. L’il Otis, while an increidbly happy baby, is a bit vulnerable to illness. In the virus factory they call daycare, he tends to pick up the illness du jour. Last week was rotovirus, an impossibly ugly stomach illness that renders little kids like him unable to hold anything in their bodies for five to seven days. The ugly details aside, the illness resulted in a lot of extra laundry, a lot of lost sleep, and one rehydrating trip to the Emergency Room. I’m pleased to say the kid is now feeling much better and most of the laundry is done.

In other news, I’m in the middle of another foolhardy attempt at facial hair growth. I’ve only worn facial hair three times before in my life. The first part of a non-shaving ski trip in which my brother ended up in the hospital after running into a tree. The second was during a particularly low point in my life in which I was pining over the woman who would eventually become my wife. The thirs was during my dad’s hospital saty a year or so back. Now, I’m more than a month into the experiment and still don’t know how I feel about it. The only really neat thing was the necessity of buying a beard trimmer, which I’ve found has a number of neato uses.

Those are the two most exciting things in my life. I’ve been playing a little poker but not faring well in the past few weeks. One of my friends has decided I’ve fallen off the face of the earth as a result. Of course, we went out for beers last night and he left after an hour, so I guess he doesn’t miss me that badly.

London is calling. I’ll be there in about a week and half. Boston for the weekend after that, then Vegas and a five-year anniversary trip with Mrs. Otis. Then back to Vegas, then home for Bradoween in August.

Hopefully I’ll have some real stories along the way.