I'll get you; I'll get you all.

I've established a blog for Ovid Adam Mains, the person who happens to be my son. It is, after all, 2008. We--none of us--can be bothered with the personal touch of printed pictures, let alone sending individual sets of them tailored to those we care about. It's too much work. And: you always send the wrong people packages and not the right people. I do, at least. So, for those of you and not those of you (if there exist [m]any of the latter), you can look at my son on the internets and feel good or bad for me, depending on how well you know me and how well you know how little sleep people like me get when people like him come swinging his big-ass balls around. Here is where you can go. Go. But always come back. That's the secret of the mother I never had who is a love of mine, as well as my father and mother, Jane Miller.

Mains

This is my son. He doesn't have a name. He was born today. He's beautiful and perfect and I'm proud of him and I love him.