I'm back.

They thought they had me down.  They thought they had me beat.  They thought Los Angeles had eaten me alive and I'd never be seen again.

Well.

How wrong they were.

I've had my own private dark night of the soul, ducklings.  Oh yes.  Especially if by "dark" you mean "thorough," by "night" you mean "reappraisal" and by "soul" you mean "finances."  But I have risen resplendent like a phoenix from the ashes, like Liza Minelli from the sordid detritus of her four gruesome marriages, like Robert Downey Jr.'s career from a needle-infested rat nest in Pershing Square, like Scarlett O'Hara from the smouldering ruin of Tara, clutching a cut crystal tumbler and swearing, as god is my witness, I will never buy cheap gin again, before finally breaking into a show-stopping rendition of "Don't Rain on My Parade."

Don't rain on it, motherfuckers.

There will be more fashion, more luxury bargains, more things I lurve, more joys and concerns, more bitchery than ever before.  Because if there isn't, my friends, then the communists, the terrorists, and the joyless, dour, uptight, self-righteous vegans have won.