Hello, it's me.

Hey.

It's me, Moss.

Moss Jervins.

You remember me.

I was in FORTUNE ISLAND and MATCHING MATCHBOOKS. I was in THE ILLUSTRATOR'S WIFE. I was in THE RESURRECTIONIST.

Moss *Jervins*.

J-E-R-V-I-N-hey where're you—

* * *

For the past three years—who am I kidding, *five* years—that's been the story of my life. El story de mi vida. Agents ignoring me, publicists giving me the cold shoulder, so-called friends ditching me when my aura of loserdom got to be too damn much.

"Cold shoulder" is a misnomer. Antarctica would love to have shoulders like those. What with the glaciers melting and so forth because of the ACID RAIN and ozone and all that.

What do the penguins do?

I mean once upon a time it was but the matter of a moment to call up old Mossie and paint the town so red it hurt. The limos, the champagne. I had a driver named Georges and a Boston terrier with a mother-of-pearl collar and a condo in Redondo Beach and a shrink at $275 a session. I was always game for a role, big or small.

Then that horrible Anselm St. Loganberry started the dreadful oh it's too horrible I can't even think about it.

Sorry.

Anselm St. Assh--- started that wretched rumor—you never think these things are going to add up to anything and then all of a sudden they *do*.

And just like *that*, everyone thinks the worst of you. The gossip sheets have a ball. You're dropped from guest lists. Nobody calls. Even your shrink doesn't want to see you—and you're *paying* the sonuvabitch.

Worst were the dozens of hateful little WEBSITES purporting to have inside dope, incriminating photos, even AUDIO CLIPS of me slagging the bouncers at the Orange Pekoe Lounge.

Well, that actually *was* me slagging them—I mix up my s's and t's when I've had one too many—but still.

It's the *principle* of the thing.

What did Moss Jervins ever do to hurt anyone?

Answer: Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Zilch.

Nil.

Nuttin'.

But my friends left me. My fan club dried up. The president—Gabby McWhorter, then a senior at Wyvern College—shipped all the back issues of the official Moss Jervins newsletter, *A Rolling Stone Gathers Some Moss*, back to my agent.

Rather, my ex agent.

Shipped it COD.

I had to pay.

That was the low point, or the beginning of the low points.

Gabby you little tramp.

I'll vent about it later.

Now is a time for renewal. Deep breath. OK. NOW. I just want all y'all to know that the Moss of yore is back, and all is forgiven.

See, I need to reclaim the me that made me happy.

And, more importantly, the me that made *you* happy.

It's time to move on.

I think this BLOG will do the trick.

Won't you join me on this journey?

xx,
Moss