The sweet spot in a writer’s life: The time between the first queries going out and the first rejection winging back.

File this where you will: As I was typing the previous sentence, a rejection popped into my mailbox. There ya go. First dent in the door of the new car.

Should be an insane weekend. Big graduation party for Middle Daughter. Time to dust off my bartending vest and keep the family machine lubricated. I’m your Huckleberry.

Wow! Two! Two rejections! New York is waking up. It’s raining “no.” Hallelujah. My middle finger is twitching.

I had a stray thought this morning. I submit to you that the Most Interesting Man in the World exists. He is not a fiction. And his name is Mike Rowe. Is there anybody cooler than Mike Rowe? Is there any personality currently working in media who motivates Y chromosomes to buy him a beer on an primal “You’re Alpha and I’m Okay With That” level? He exudes the charisma of a guy’s guy. The kind of drinkin’ buddy who would never start a barfight, but just might end one if things got out of hand. If it were the Fifth Century, he’s the kind of guy you’d want to be marching behind through a foggy pre-battle dawn.

Mike needs a Leno-level intervention for the denim shirts schtick, but there’s time. Maybe. With that voice, you can tell Mike is a pack-a-day man.

I’m going to build a bridge. Just because. Because I am the Least Interesting Man in the World. Because I’m between obsessive projects. My Father-in-Law lives in the Eleven Acre Woods. A large ravine bisects the forest behind his house. Getting from the house-side of the land to the back forty is a pain in the ass because you have to hike a half-mile west in order to make the turn east to the backwoods. Bridge. It’s insane. I see it in my head. I’ve priced the super thick cable (covered in clear plastic tubing to prevent corrosion). I think I could do it in a weekend. I’m sure I could do it in a weekend if I had a drinkin’ buddy.

Mike Rowe and I could knock that fucker out in an hour.