Prince Pierre Troubetzkoy
Portrait of a Gentleman (Detail) c.1904
Collection of the author

Long long ago, before the earth had fully cooled and I had just commenced blogging, I made a friend or two.  I even met a couple of them in person, and if you've ever made friends on line, then you know how fraught with disappointment the experience can be.  The kindly old Dutch lady you were looking forward to comparing needlepoint patterns with turns out to be some horny young kid in Toledo with nothing but trouble to offer you, and you need a restraining order to get rid of him.  Or that interesting fellow who seemed to have so much to offer when you traded certain pictures of yourself who winds up being your creepy downstairs neighbor when you finally progress to face shots.  What a let down.  

But not Roman.  He was the real deal.  Still is. He's the kind of person you wish lived closer.  The kind of guy you'd love to have living downstairs or across the hall.  A wickedly funny fellow.  A talented writer.  A gentleman.  

But the writer's life is a lonely one, and even if it isn't, if you write like me, you'll make it into a lonely business.  You'll wear a hoodie with the hood up when you're home alone.  You'll forget to return calls and emails and never answer your mail and then wonder why no one ever calls or writes.  You'll stop reading the blogs you started reading when you first started out, you'll stop reading your own posts for godssake.  You'll stop reading period.  You'll wonder why Scotty Bowers' book reading and signing at Book Soup tomorrow night will be packed and worry at the same time that no one will come to yours (Thursday March 29th at Book Soup on Sunset, 7 pm, and yes, I'll be posting about that again.  And again, and again...)

And so Roman Hans writes a kind REVIEW of my book Down the Garden Path, and it takes me a MONTH to find it.  A month.  It takes me so long, he has to drop me a line to let me know.  Remember that, the next time you hear me complain about my fame being posthumous. 

But I am here to tell you something: some friends do hang in there, and for that I am deeply grateful.  Friends like Roman who make you want to try and be a better friend yourself.  Especially friends you met not in broad daylight face to face but in the dark back basement rooms of the blogosphere.  Guys you knew first by nothing more than the warm feel of their words, by the husky sexy humor of their breath on the nape of your mind.  By a light touch and an unexpected delivery.  Much more rewarding and funnier and kinder than you deserve.  And a whole lot more, in this world, than you can hope to find most days walking out your front door.

Thank you, kind sir.  Thank you, old friend. 
Your biggest fan,
1904