The One Where Dave Gushes

I’m an important man. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells like rich mahogany. I'm a man who discovered the wheel and built the Eiffel Tower out of metal and brawn. I’m a man who needs a cologne that makes me smell like a turd covered in burnt hair. Sex Panther!

I have been told - in no uncertain terms - that I will not be receiving this for Valentine’s Day. But, with the card manufacturer appointed day of consumption coming up, I think it might be an opportune moment to give a big shout out to all the significant others out there that put up with us tortured artists.

My Better Half certainly deserves praise. She deals with my sulking and frustration with good grace and a warm heart. She copes when I sit on the sofa with a notepad or laptop every night, swearing while I decide whether Coco Pops or Rice Crispies are funnier.

She merely shook her head when I ordained myself as a priest in the Church of the Latter Day Dude. She, like the Dude, abides.

She does not complain when I crawl out of bed early on a Sunday morning to re-write a scene while watching “Match of the Day” and she provides words of comfort when there’s a setback. Basically, she rocks.


It’s Rice Crispies, by the way.