TODAY IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY BLOG! TO COMMEMORATE THIS AUSPICIOUS OCCASION I HAVE DECIDED TO RERUN MY VERY FIRST BLOG POST.
PLEASE TO ENJOY…
So yeah, I wrote a book.
I must have been high when I wrote it because there’s no other explanation I can give for my 120,000 word upper YA novel where the only noun I used more than “boner” was “blood.” It goes without saying that I’m self-published. I didn’t even try to submit it traditionally. Can you just imagine the poor agent who gets my query letter?
“My novel, THE GODS OF ASPHALT is complete at 120,000 words and is the first in a series of five books that for some reason I’ve decided to write out-of-order. Each one is told from the point of view of a teenage male protagonist who has exactly zero supernatural powers (unless you consider perpetual erections a superpower). Oh, and it also has Spanish subtitles.”
On the good side, if you’re like me and are just a little too into music, motorcycles and all around badassery this is the book for you. If you’re not, I’m sure Jodi Picoult’s got a blog somewhere. You can find the opening to chapter one at the top of the page under the tab GOA REVIEWS and you can find my book on line at:
February 2012 and yours truly is glued to the television, elbows deep in clam chowda, an ice cold rack a pounders within reach. The iconic opening notes of O Fortuna pour out of the speakers, and like Pavlov’s dog, my heart begins to pound in anticipation. I move closer to the screen just as the unmistakeable sound of Ozzy screaming, “ALL ABOARD “ heralds the moment I’ve been waiting all season for– the moment my beloved New England Patriots take the field for SuperBowl XLVI.
I spend the next hour watching the Pats do what they do best– beat the snot outta anything hailing from New York, all to the tune of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck. Drunk with uber-fandom superiority (and a few Sam Adams), I place a hasty call before the half to brain-dead idiot and lifetime Giants fan, Jeb.
Questions were posed as to how far I might go if the Pats inconceivably lost the SuperBowl, one in particular to involve the possibility of me patronizing another NFL sports team. For life.
Jeb knows me well enough to know that I would never make a bet to become a Giants fan, so he picked the lesser of two evils.
You guessed it. Karma is a Raiders fan. And as of February 5th, so was I.
Let me begin by saying that there are many reasons why I am morally opposed to patronizing a West Coast sports team, the first being that I am, in fact, an East Coaster. I mean, do they even have clam chowder in California? I bet they put pineapple in it, the savages.
Next are their team colors. Silver and Black? Really? My Patriots proudly sport the Red, White, and Blue; clear evidence that to be a Raiders fan is to be unAmerican.
Now, some may argue that the West Coast has superior beer, and I for one would agree. But I would also like to point out to all you West Coasters out there that just like everything else in California, Corona is from Mexico, which means it doesn’t really belong to you. Just ask Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.
But I think the biggest affront to my senses will be the assault to my ears. Tell me, how in the hell is Godsmack supposed to cover this??
People, it’s going to be a long season.
Resident blogger and uber audiophile Edward Hotspur recently penned (typed? keyed?) a post entitled: AN ANALYSIS AND DISSECTION OF THE UTTERLY STUPID SONG “ALL I WANT TO DO IS MAKE LOVE TO YOU” in which he deciphers the twisted meaning behind Heart’s atrocious lyrics.
Naturally that got me thinking, and no good ever comes of that. So in the spirit of his blog post I offer up this challenge to the great EH:
What the hell was Manfred Mann trying to say when they released BLINDED BY THE LIGHT? I mean, WTF??? Just how prolific were drugs in the seventies?
Have you figured it out yet? This might help:
YAY!!! I MADE IT!!!
I’M SO CLOSE I CAN TASTE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!