Our pre-eminent diarist/Fan!Post!ist! needs no further introduction, and if you plan to skip anything he writes for our front page you're fully insane.
Ah, What Does BHGP mean to me?
A tawdry mix of the high and low (well, mostly low); a soupcon of the outrageous, tasteless, and wise; untold wasted hours in compulsive, futile pursuit of BHGP insight and mystery (why do they talk about their privates with such frequency? Why does Meg hate me?).
All in all, since I found myself *in* the mix, as the Coach loves to say, at BHGP my hair grows in thicker, my bench is up 20 pounds, my waist is down two inches, and my study has filled with graphic novels and gallon jars of whey protein. Charming piles of discarded cans of Natty Boh, everywhere. "You just seem ... so filled, so rife ... with Manly Vigor," one longtime friend mentioned breathlessly, nuzzling her elegantness beneath my left ear. "Is it that blog that I catch you staring at, drunk and in your undershorts, at 3 a.m., that we can thank? Surely now we must nap again."
Soon I will have locks, again, like Paki or J. Leman, a Camaro *with an eight track* in the front yard. Manly Vigor: my morning runs now push 7, 8 miles; I do squats and bounce dimes off my thighs of steel. Emails at the office ripple through the ether, small epiphanies each, texts exclaiming the unknown, leaving breathless awe in their wake. Manliness, things literary, lots of hair. That is what BHGP means, to me. Happy Anniversary, BHGP.
Thanks Bellanca. Our hairlines paw at your picture and whine wistfully. And by "Our" I mean "My."