The United States’ Interstate Highway System has existed since 1956. It services nearly every major city in the contiguous 48 states. Once you spend a fair amount of your life on it, as I have, the entire thing begins to feel like a network of veins and capillaries, a vascular web in which you are merely a passive participant, one lone blood cell being carried along on its way to yet another bodily destination.
Whether you do or do not jive with this particular analogy might have a lot to do with your personal driving technique. To many Americans, our automobiles symbolize freedom. Most of us earned our driving licenses at age 16. To a teenager, the license to operate a motor vehicle offers, for the first time in life, the option to go wherever one wants, whenever one wants, however the fuck one wants to go there. If any feeling encapsulates The American Dream, this might be it.
Many of us carry this sense of vehicular entitlement into adulthood. Despite receiving tickets, enduring accidents and going into debt paying for scheduled and unscheduled maintenance, we cherish and nurture the idea that we own the road. “Screw those highway fatality statistics,” we tell ourselves as we careen into the left-hand lane, writing a text while abruptly stopping in front of a line of traffic behind us. “I want a burger.”
We think we can control things. We make goals, set deadlines, plan, execute, overachieve and triumph. And then a mini-van comes smashing into our rear bumper, pushing us out into oncoming traffic, right in front of the goddamn Burger King.
I wrote “Touch of Mascara” when I was 22 years old. Originally, it was intended for Trisha Yearwood, the country singer. At some point I realized that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of her ever recording it. Awash in disappointment, I came to the conclusion that, although there were plenty of macho ruminations about The Great American Road, very few dudes had sung about the highway and the application of cosmetics. I thought I could corner the market. This was well before the appearance of the hit television series, ‘Queer Eye For The Straight Guy.’
Showing posts with label legacy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label legacy. Show all posts
Friday, October 21, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Dudes' Facebook Chat, September 22
5:31pm
W: how do I get dudes. just a quick answer. pls.
D: NOv. 15 it's everywhere. Dude.
W: awesome can't wait. 2 sentence description?
D: "Music worth getting sued over." Right up your alley, Esquire.
W: that's 1 sentence.
D: "Music worth getting sued over, spat upon and licked like a kitten. Like a shaved kitten, that is."
W: sweet that shit is usually my JAMZ!
D: I knew you'd be down.
W: you know it brosef, I've been outta the loop working two jobs to try and save up for school for the past year and a half so I was bummed that I missed out on all the DUDEs hype and kickstarter.
just started seeing info. about it when school started and I was spending more time around computer.
D: that's what they all say. brosef, that's strong
W: listen here scooter britches me and the ol' lady is up to our eye-balls in babies and I had to do something quick so I had to get a couple of jobs that were awful.
in addition to the job that I kinda liked.
D: sweet jesus you are fertile bunch. I applaud your move towards the decent life. and more ginger offspring.
W: thank you, I've always been interested in law and if I felt like music could support my family even just pay the bills I'd still be doing it.
D: tell you what, i'll trade you a copy of dudes for one of them carrot children.
W: done and done.
D: sweet. can ya'll fedex that shit?
W: actually we only have one ginger but we might have another one cooking we'll know in a cupla months.
I just opened the door and put a brown bag in his hand and pointed him the direction of Nashville.
Tell you what he'd probably appreciate it if you met him half way.
D: Tell him there's a good titty bar on the west side of knoxville...
W: he's already crying...sweet moses...that's gonna be a looooonnnng walk.
D: I can be there in a day or so
W: contact I can call at the titty bar? he's got his name pinned to his shirt.
D: Mona 347-666-PONG
W: perfect. there's no holes in this one its air-tite. Listen you don't feel the need to put the hurry up on the disc. I know yer good for it.
D:10-4.
W: peace. Oh...WAIT! did t-swif call yet?
D: 23 goddamn times. think it means anything?
W: as your lawyer Imma tell you DON"T answer her calls. Text her these words: "paper. you get the song when I get my paper."
she's industry savvy she'll know what it means.
D: sounds air-tite. You know what that means.
W: I don't.
D: Aaaiiight picklenuts I gotta dash off a piece about that very thing for AMerican Songwriter
W: for the mag?
D:this has been damn enjoyable
yeah the mag
W: What's the best way for me to keep in touch?
as far as what you're up to?
D: Imma bout to release a holy onslaught of shit that will be impossible to ignore
you got my everything, hit me up whenever you feel blue
and thanks
W: I don't get blue. Imma future lawyer I just clip coupons and smile dawg.
lates.
D: over and outs
W: peace.
W: how do I get dudes. just a quick answer. pls.
D: NOv. 15 it's everywhere. Dude.
W: awesome can't wait. 2 sentence description?
D: "Music worth getting sued over." Right up your alley, Esquire.
W: that's 1 sentence.
D: "Music worth getting sued over, spat upon and licked like a kitten. Like a shaved kitten, that is."
W: sweet that shit is usually my JAMZ!
D: I knew you'd be down.
W: you know it brosef, I've been outta the loop working two jobs to try and save up for school for the past year and a half so I was bummed that I missed out on all the DUDEs hype and kickstarter.
just started seeing info. about it when school started and I was spending more time around computer.
D: that's what they all say. brosef, that's strong
W: listen here scooter britches me and the ol' lady is up to our eye-balls in babies and I had to do something quick so I had to get a couple of jobs that were awful.
in addition to the job that I kinda liked.
D: sweet jesus you are fertile bunch. I applaud your move towards the decent life. and more ginger offspring.
W: thank you, I've always been interested in law and if I felt like music could support my family even just pay the bills I'd still be doing it.
D: tell you what, i'll trade you a copy of dudes for one of them carrot children.
W: done and done.
D: sweet. can ya'll fedex that shit?
W: actually we only have one ginger but we might have another one cooking we'll know in a cupla months.
I just opened the door and put a brown bag in his hand and pointed him the direction of Nashville.
Tell you what he'd probably appreciate it if you met him half way.
D: Tell him there's a good titty bar on the west side of knoxville...
W: he's already crying...sweet moses...that's gonna be a looooonnnng walk.
D: I can be there in a day or so
W: contact I can call at the titty bar? he's got his name pinned to his shirt.
D: Mona 347-666-PONG
W: perfect. there's no holes in this one its air-tite. Listen you don't feel the need to put the hurry up on the disc. I know yer good for it.
D:10-4.
W: peace. Oh...WAIT! did t-swif call yet?
D: 23 goddamn times. think it means anything?
W: as your lawyer Imma tell you DON"T answer her calls. Text her these words: "paper. you get the song when I get my paper."
she's industry savvy she'll know what it means.
D: sounds air-tite. You know what that means.
W: I don't.
D: Aaaiiight picklenuts I gotta dash off a piece about that very thing for AMerican Songwriter
W: for the mag?
D:this has been damn enjoyable
yeah the mag
W: What's the best way for me to keep in touch?
as far as what you're up to?
D: Imma bout to release a holy onslaught of shit that will be impossible to ignore
you got my everything, hit me up whenever you feel blue
and thanks
W: I don't get blue. Imma future lawyer I just clip coupons and smile dawg.
lates.
D: over and outs
W: peace.
Monday, August 1, 2011
On Cargo Shorts And Other Dangerous Weapons
The blue Paul Smith ‘Byard’ suit haunts me. The auction will not end for two more days, but the bids have already inched up within spitting distance of my personal limit on what should be spent for a beautiful-yet-unnecessary suit. I could torture myself a bit, check the bidding history, theorize about who will and who won’t be willing to go to the mat in the final seconds. I could attempt to chill with a quick trip to my closet to examine and admire the 13 suits that already hang there, several of which have been worn no more than three times. But I remain in a dream state, buoyed by a promise of faux aristocracy, of fine fabric draping my shoulders like a coronation cape.
Dream on, Levon; the day is young. Lest this all seem like an exercise in frivolity, I should mention that I buy my suits exclusively off of Ebay. I have a price ceiling of $175.00 that I generally adhere to, busting my budget only when a truly exceptional piece comes up on the block. That said, I have never paid more than $250.00 for a suit. In spite of the fact that the retail value of my current collection is somewhere in the $13,000 range, I, through careful channeling of my mother’s bargain hunting acumen, have amassed it for little more than a tenth of that figure.
But to what end? Needless to say, my wardrobe does not suit my natural habitat. Men in Nashville generally dress for comfort until held at sartorial gunpoint by the occasions of certain religious holidays, funerals or appointments with loan officers. Even at my recent nuptials, the sheer volume of open collars and denim was remarkable. The man arriving at a Nashville event in (what appears to be) an expensive suit is generally regarded with suspicion and a certain amount of contempt, as if he is attempting to upstage everyone else or is simply too consumed with his own vanity to get with the damn program and put on a pair of cargo shorts.
I own a pair of cargo shorts. They are incredibly comfortable. I wear them around the house and for work in the yard. When I walk Stan in the morning, I do it in cargo shorts. And occasionally, when the heat index has pushed all Nashvillians beyond powers of reason, I venture out to public establishments in cargo shorts. When working in Key West, I can usually be found in little else besides the cargo shorts. I am pro-cargo shorts. I advocate the ownership and proper use of cargo shorts. When worn in the appropriate context, they are a useful thing.
This does not diminish their inherent danger, however. Cargo shorts don’t destroy lives; people who use cargo shorts improperly destroy lives. Let’s make a corollary examination of a particular clothing chain called ‘Life Is Good.’ I have never actually set foot in one of their stores but, by the lay of their window displays, I gather that they specialize in every item of clothing ever designed for total comfort and minimal upkeep: faded t-shirts sporting goofy slogans and cartoons, several varieties of flip-flops, sun visors, baseball caps, mu-mu’s, rhesus monkey pelts and, of course, cargo shorts. I find ‘Life Is Good’ to be a bizarre moniker for such a place. Perhaps ‘I Give Up’ would be more appropriate.
To frame the discussion in a more suburban context, let me expound for a moment about a particular neighbor. This fellow… I’ll call him Dick, to protect his long-lost innocence… thudded onto my shit list a couple of years ago after making a particularly snide comment regarding the length of the grass in my front yard, alluding to the fact that, in case I hadn’t noticed, ‘Other people have to look at that.’
Fair enough, I reasoned; I had been out of town for two weeks and had indeed allowed the grass to flourish well beyond the length considered to be ‘Belmont Appropriate.’ But as I watched him waddle back to his property, a large sweat stain inching down the center of his ample posterior, I reflected on the multiple times I had seen him leaving his house clad in an old t-shirt, crappy flip-flops and some variety of baggy, shapeless short pants that sagged well below his donut knees. I imagined a brief admonition that might be considered less than Belmont Appropriate:
“At least put on some pants, a belt and a button-down shirt, you fat fuck. Other people have to look at that.”
Attention to wardrobe is not an exercise in vanity; it is a condition of mutual respect. If we cannot get our sartorial shit together, it not only reflects badly on us but also on our ability to take those around us into consideration. Yes, I realize it is your right to wear whatever you want, whenever you want. Now, stop picking your nose, go stand in the corner for five minutes and don’t come back until you’ve learned to play nice the other children. And work on that attitude, kid. Remember, Life Is Good.
Meanwhile, the bidding on the blue Paul Smith ‘Byard’ suit has spiraled upward and out of my reach, $272.00 and climbing. I shall humbly delete it from my watch list, make another cup of tea and head out to the back deck for a smoke and a quick examination of the hosta blooms. The late morning is burning hot, steaming up yesterday’s rain from the ground, a hot breath bathing my lily-white ankles. In the alley, Spady and his demon terrier are passing by. He cracks the gate and sticks his head in.
“Looking good back here. Hosta’s are really coming up.”
“Thanks. How’s the book coming?”
“31 chapters with a bullet. Almost there.” He gives a thumbs-up sign. The terrier growls and begins pulling violently towards the street, most likely in pursuit of a poor, defenseless animal. Spady demurs. “OK, better get moving. Have a good one, buddy.”
“You too.”
“Nice shorts.” Another thumbs up.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I thought you might like them.”
Dream on, Levon; the day is young. Lest this all seem like an exercise in frivolity, I should mention that I buy my suits exclusively off of Ebay. I have a price ceiling of $175.00 that I generally adhere to, busting my budget only when a truly exceptional piece comes up on the block. That said, I have never paid more than $250.00 for a suit. In spite of the fact that the retail value of my current collection is somewhere in the $13,000 range, I, through careful channeling of my mother’s bargain hunting acumen, have amassed it for little more than a tenth of that figure.
But to what end? Needless to say, my wardrobe does not suit my natural habitat. Men in Nashville generally dress for comfort until held at sartorial gunpoint by the occasions of certain religious holidays, funerals or appointments with loan officers. Even at my recent nuptials, the sheer volume of open collars and denim was remarkable. The man arriving at a Nashville event in (what appears to be) an expensive suit is generally regarded with suspicion and a certain amount of contempt, as if he is attempting to upstage everyone else or is simply too consumed with his own vanity to get with the damn program and put on a pair of cargo shorts.
I own a pair of cargo shorts. They are incredibly comfortable. I wear them around the house and for work in the yard. When I walk Stan in the morning, I do it in cargo shorts. And occasionally, when the heat index has pushed all Nashvillians beyond powers of reason, I venture out to public establishments in cargo shorts. When working in Key West, I can usually be found in little else besides the cargo shorts. I am pro-cargo shorts. I advocate the ownership and proper use of cargo shorts. When worn in the appropriate context, they are a useful thing.
This does not diminish their inherent danger, however. Cargo shorts don’t destroy lives; people who use cargo shorts improperly destroy lives. Let’s make a corollary examination of a particular clothing chain called ‘Life Is Good.’ I have never actually set foot in one of their stores but, by the lay of their window displays, I gather that they specialize in every item of clothing ever designed for total comfort and minimal upkeep: faded t-shirts sporting goofy slogans and cartoons, several varieties of flip-flops, sun visors, baseball caps, mu-mu’s, rhesus monkey pelts and, of course, cargo shorts. I find ‘Life Is Good’ to be a bizarre moniker for such a place. Perhaps ‘I Give Up’ would be more appropriate.
To frame the discussion in a more suburban context, let me expound for a moment about a particular neighbor. This fellow… I’ll call him Dick, to protect his long-lost innocence… thudded onto my shit list a couple of years ago after making a particularly snide comment regarding the length of the grass in my front yard, alluding to the fact that, in case I hadn’t noticed, ‘Other people have to look at that.’
Fair enough, I reasoned; I had been out of town for two weeks and had indeed allowed the grass to flourish well beyond the length considered to be ‘Belmont Appropriate.’ But as I watched him waddle back to his property, a large sweat stain inching down the center of his ample posterior, I reflected on the multiple times I had seen him leaving his house clad in an old t-shirt, crappy flip-flops and some variety of baggy, shapeless short pants that sagged well below his donut knees. I imagined a brief admonition that might be considered less than Belmont Appropriate:
“At least put on some pants, a belt and a button-down shirt, you fat fuck. Other people have to look at that.”
Attention to wardrobe is not an exercise in vanity; it is a condition of mutual respect. If we cannot get our sartorial shit together, it not only reflects badly on us but also on our ability to take those around us into consideration. Yes, I realize it is your right to wear whatever you want, whenever you want. Now, stop picking your nose, go stand in the corner for five minutes and don’t come back until you’ve learned to play nice the other children. And work on that attitude, kid. Remember, Life Is Good.
Meanwhile, the bidding on the blue Paul Smith ‘Byard’ suit has spiraled upward and out of my reach, $272.00 and climbing. I shall humbly delete it from my watch list, make another cup of tea and head out to the back deck for a smoke and a quick examination of the hosta blooms. The late morning is burning hot, steaming up yesterday’s rain from the ground, a hot breath bathing my lily-white ankles. In the alley, Spady and his demon terrier are passing by. He cracks the gate and sticks his head in.
“Looking good back here. Hosta’s are really coming up.”
“Thanks. How’s the book coming?”
“31 chapters with a bullet. Almost there.” He gives a thumbs-up sign. The terrier growls and begins pulling violently towards the street, most likely in pursuit of a poor, defenseless animal. Spady demurs. “OK, better get moving. Have a good one, buddy.”
“You too.”
“Nice shorts.” Another thumbs up.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I thought you might like them.”
Friday, July 29, 2011
Don't Call It A Comeback
Morning blasts the windows lining Belmont Blvd., flashing the panes into a thousand runway lights, a suburban invitation to chaos and opportunity. I have been waiting, Martha; waiting weeks for a goddamn spark of inspiration. I wonder why the Universe keeps beating the hell out of my friends, driving the dinner dogs into mad frenzies over rawhide bones, the Congress getting nowhere in Washington, oblivious to any obvious conclusions.
Squinting back at it all, I slip on a pair of Air Force sunglasses and evacuate my bowels, heartily. The coffee is still warm in the French press and smoke permeates my fragile lung tissue. The back yard sun feels good on my bare chest. You could sweep all of these limbs and dead insects off the deck or just live your life, I reason. Three long moves into my catalogue of online Scrabble matches and suddenly I am 37, standing on my back deck, staring into a mobile device, clad only in sunglasses and a pair of patterned bikini briefs.
“Fuck it.” An hour later I am following Deakin through channels of furniture into the kitchen of his 80 year-old Tudor. His two children and three dogs are all gathered around Spiderman on a laptop, the kids eating sliced fruit, the dogs wagging and panting. “Davey, all I can say is, I’m alive.” A tattoo crawls over his deltoid like black ivy. Posting up behind the counter, he folds his arms and scrunches his shoulders. The turtle. “I’m just alive, you know? That’s all I can guarantee anybody at this very moment.” The smaller child lets fly a strawberry that lands on the floor about two feet from the closest dog. Deakin gives him a look. The kid raises his arms in triumph. “Fuck it!” screams the child.
Virgomama367, you dirty whore. My recent gaming successes have attracted a certain amount of attention in the online Scrabble community, the sort of acclaim that accompanies elevated win/loss ratios and the search engines that feed on them. I have been punching throats up to this point, handily discarding a series of anonymous guest players along with the jfreiberg51’s, the nmolgren’s and wurdkitten069’s of the world. These have been small triumphs, unseen by most, shots never heard round the world.
But virgomama367 is a different breed entirely. She attacks even my most ingenious 3-letter multi-word plays, birthing strange, Welsh-looking words, her disjointed consonants enveloping my vowels like a pair of Gypsy thighs. She refuses to take the bait of a juicy H laid in careful proximity to the Triple Word Score. She, most likely from the comfort of a well-organized cubicle in Nebraska, is currently beating me by 21 points. And then… HWYL. 42 points. What?
“Nice hat.” Tommy, now arranging himself in the chair across the table, is a pillar of my existence, six feet one inch of immaculate grooming. Eyebrowing the mobile device I have just tossed into a condiment caddy, he blows across the surface of his coffee. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Chicks are smarter,” I reply. “Always have been.” I register an approaching pair of milk-heavy breasts swaying in a pink tank top. “They are superior, evolved…” The mammaries come to rest at a table of children with sticky buns. “The givers of life. What have we got?”
“Disappointment,” smiles Tommy.
“Prostate cancer,” I counter.
“Erectile dysfunction.”
“I am officially switching my allegiance from Jelly Belly’s to Good n’ Plenty,” I say. “It’s the mature thing to do. It’s an age thing. We get older, we care more about definition, specificity, noticing the details.” At the table next to ours, a pack of Christian indie rockers in cut-off’s and fedoras join hands, bow heads and begin to pray. I continue, “Jelly Belly’s are clearly the adolescent choice: over a hundred different flavors, millions of potential combinations. These days, I can’t make it through a bag of Jelly Belly’s without feeling completely overwhelmed. It’s like a gang bang in my mouth.”
“Hmmm.”
“Good n’ Plenty, however, is the pursuit of purity. Two colors. One flavor.” The Christians break from their huddle and noisily tuck into their breakfasts. “Things like freshness, environment, even the quantity of consumption… yes, three Good n’ Plenty in your mouth at once is totally different than five, or one... The finer details are not overwhelmed by the total onslaught of artificial flavoring and sugar.”
“Good n’ Plenty: the Dao of Candy,” Tommy offers, his teeth gleaming.
“Jelly Belly’s remind me that the good times are fleeting. That I’m going to die.” Suddenly, I feel better. “Good n’ Plenty… well, the journey is endless.”
Squinting back at it all, I slip on a pair of Air Force sunglasses and evacuate my bowels, heartily. The coffee is still warm in the French press and smoke permeates my fragile lung tissue. The back yard sun feels good on my bare chest. You could sweep all of these limbs and dead insects off the deck or just live your life, I reason. Three long moves into my catalogue of online Scrabble matches and suddenly I am 37, standing on my back deck, staring into a mobile device, clad only in sunglasses and a pair of patterned bikini briefs.
“Fuck it.” An hour later I am following Deakin through channels of furniture into the kitchen of his 80 year-old Tudor. His two children and three dogs are all gathered around Spiderman on a laptop, the kids eating sliced fruit, the dogs wagging and panting. “Davey, all I can say is, I’m alive.” A tattoo crawls over his deltoid like black ivy. Posting up behind the counter, he folds his arms and scrunches his shoulders. The turtle. “I’m just alive, you know? That’s all I can guarantee anybody at this very moment.” The smaller child lets fly a strawberry that lands on the floor about two feet from the closest dog. Deakin gives him a look. The kid raises his arms in triumph. “Fuck it!” screams the child.
Virgomama367, you dirty whore. My recent gaming successes have attracted a certain amount of attention in the online Scrabble community, the sort of acclaim that accompanies elevated win/loss ratios and the search engines that feed on them. I have been punching throats up to this point, handily discarding a series of anonymous guest players along with the jfreiberg51’s, the nmolgren’s and wurdkitten069’s of the world. These have been small triumphs, unseen by most, shots never heard round the world.
But virgomama367 is a different breed entirely. She attacks even my most ingenious 3-letter multi-word plays, birthing strange, Welsh-looking words, her disjointed consonants enveloping my vowels like a pair of Gypsy thighs. She refuses to take the bait of a juicy H laid in careful proximity to the Triple Word Score. She, most likely from the comfort of a well-organized cubicle in Nebraska, is currently beating me by 21 points. And then… HWYL. 42 points. What?
“Nice hat.” Tommy, now arranging himself in the chair across the table, is a pillar of my existence, six feet one inch of immaculate grooming. Eyebrowing the mobile device I have just tossed into a condiment caddy, he blows across the surface of his coffee. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Chicks are smarter,” I reply. “Always have been.” I register an approaching pair of milk-heavy breasts swaying in a pink tank top. “They are superior, evolved…” The mammaries come to rest at a table of children with sticky buns. “The givers of life. What have we got?”
“Disappointment,” smiles Tommy.
“Prostate cancer,” I counter.
“Erectile dysfunction.”
“I am officially switching my allegiance from Jelly Belly’s to Good n’ Plenty,” I say. “It’s the mature thing to do. It’s an age thing. We get older, we care more about definition, specificity, noticing the details.” At the table next to ours, a pack of Christian indie rockers in cut-off’s and fedoras join hands, bow heads and begin to pray. I continue, “Jelly Belly’s are clearly the adolescent choice: over a hundred different flavors, millions of potential combinations. These days, I can’t make it through a bag of Jelly Belly’s without feeling completely overwhelmed. It’s like a gang bang in my mouth.”
“Hmmm.”
“Good n’ Plenty, however, is the pursuit of purity. Two colors. One flavor.” The Christians break from their huddle and noisily tuck into their breakfasts. “Things like freshness, environment, even the quantity of consumption… yes, three Good n’ Plenty in your mouth at once is totally different than five, or one... The finer details are not overwhelmed by the total onslaught of artificial flavoring and sugar.”
“Good n’ Plenty: the Dao of Candy,” Tommy offers, his teeth gleaming.
“Jelly Belly’s remind me that the good times are fleeting. That I’m going to die.” Suddenly, I feel better. “Good n’ Plenty… well, the journey is endless.”
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
What Is The Average Price Of A Gallon of Gas?
For no particular reason, this title popped up in the window. Should everything be capitalized like that? I am not sure, but I am sure that it appears authoritative. Like, 'Yeah, gas, go suck on a nut.'
So, this is the first installment of the heretofore dreaded blog experience. I write these knowing all too well that they will now have to be copied and pasted to multiple locations and shit. I find that maintaining a miniature online empire is not nearly as fun as conceiving one, even less than creating its reason for being.
I have come to realize that I seem to write best with the assurance of an audience. And I would like to be a better writer. So I'm going to blog. My friend Andrea is a great writer and a great blogger. I am told that, in order to be a writer, one must write, not just sit and opine about the slim possibility of actually doing so. I'm going to blog, and it will make me a better writer.
Friends, Welcome to the legacy.
So, this is the first installment of the heretofore dreaded blog experience. I write these knowing all too well that they will now have to be copied and pasted to multiple locations and shit. I find that maintaining a miniature online empire is not nearly as fun as conceiving one, even less than creating its reason for being.
I have come to realize that I seem to write best with the assurance of an audience. And I would like to be a better writer. So I'm going to blog. My friend Andrea is a great writer and a great blogger. I am told that, in order to be a writer, one must write, not just sit and opine about the slim possibility of actually doing so. I'm going to blog, and it will make me a better writer.
Friends, Welcome to the legacy.
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