Sarah Palin, We're Officially Breaking Up

I wish I could use the "it's not you, it's me" opening here but I'm afraid it's truly you.  I earlier wrote about Sarah Palin's singular efforts to destroy our beloved country by contributing to the canklefying of America's daughters.  Now she's attacking our country's second non-cankled First Lady in American history (Jackie O, here's to you).

Mrs. Obama has accomplished so many great things in her life, but her Let's Move initiative is the closest to my heart.  Essentially it's this great country's rally cry of "No Fatties!" and it's a position I've held every time I wrote in my votes in each election since the mid-80s.  Now Ms. Palin has gone and attacked this initiative as well.

According to the fashion-pioneering journalist, Roland S. "S is for Style" Martin, Ms. Palin came out against the First Lady's initiative calling it one more intrusion of a big government into family life.  I don't understand... how can someone who clearly loves our flag so much...



be so intent on destroying our way of life with this inside job. ?

Compare the following and tell me which is more terrifying?

Personally? I don't know because I can't tell the difference.  Can you?  That's just the kind of hard-hitting question Ms. Palin might have asked back in the days of he respected journalism career.  Today's Ms. Palin can't seem to face those same tough questions, constantly ducking behind her Twitter feed (the concept of which appalls me as a writer... you wouldn't tie down beautiful D-cups in a binding B-cup bra?  Why do that to the English language with Twitter?).  And Facebook, oh the humanity, Facebook.

Ms. Palin, I implore you.  Your television show is the cornerstone of the national treasure that is Reality TV.  Stick with that, run with that, but please leave the front lines of the war on cankles to those able to fight the good fight.

I know, this isn't in the spirit of Thanksgiving, but I'm skipping my family's gathering at the Compound in Darien, CT for reasons I won't get into now (but maybe later, damn you Father).  Oh well, off to my annual turkey day tradition of a Sex and the City marathon and pricey Pacific Rim take out.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.  Except you, Ms. Palin, we're through.  Prepare for the wrath of this tree falling the in the forest with no one there to hear it.

Inspiration... you fleeting, fickle muse.

After struggling with my writing last night, I went to the oldest writer's trick in the book.  I gave myself the worst case of indigestion I could muster via multiple whiskey sours and pepperoni pizza, then popped an Ambien and let dreams take me to my muse.

Woke up in a cold sweat, my bedroom reeking of a flatulence most unholy, but with an idea in my head.  I took twenty minutes to jot down the basics and flesh it out a bit, then returned to sleep the happiest I'd felt in a long while.

Then I wake up to find that someone already had the same idea:

Dammit, dammit dammit!  Sure there were some differences, like mine didn't take place in Kentucky.  It took place on the outer rings of the Zargos empire in the Quadra System of Contested Space, but the similarities are so uncanny that I'm forced to push this idea to the scrap pile.  I've had my heart broken more in the few weeks since I've decided to become a writer than in the entirety of my 40 plus years here on Earth.

I guess tonight's indigestion will have to come from some mashup of cheap tequila and those tacos served inside another taco.  Wish me luck.

Sarah Palin Will Destroy America

You can imagine that I might be a few days behind the news cycle given my tendencies of drinking, fancying the ladies, and dealing with the minor legal fallout that sometimes comes with those pursuits.  I came across this article today while I was doing some Googling and accidentally had my SafeSearch set to moderate.

Sarah Palin Shakes Things Up With Sugar Cookies

I don't normally consider myself an outwardly political person, but reading this article shook me to my core.  Sarah Palin advocates for and is directly contributing to a problem I care very deeply about... the cankling of American women.  I touch upon the subject briefly in my About Me section on this site, but I feel that it's time to get my thoughts on the subject out on the table in the interest of honesty.

I grew up in a religious household, but the existence of cankles leads me to doubt the existence of God.  Pear-shaped men do the same, but I'm torn about that.  On one hand, they make me doubt the existence of God.  On the other, the more pear-shaped men out there, the better my male pattern business looks in comparison.  Back on point, let me state this as emphatically as I can.  Cankles are a natural abomination, they turn my stomach faster than rancid (think back to this morning in front of the bathroom mirror, "I am a writer dammit!" and find that perfect word) mayonnaise.  They should not be a cause celebre for such a responsible, thought-provoking politician as Ms. Palin.

Ms. Palin, with all due respect, I understood with crystal clarity what you meant when you Tweeted:

intro kids 2 beauty of laissez-faire via serving them cookies amidst school cookie ban debate

The intention behind this Pablo Picasso-ification of the English language couldn't match my own core beliefs more perfectly, but at what price?  I want to get fully back on the Palin Express, especially given how strongly she opposes strawmen based on her unrelenting attacks against them, but I can not and will not lend my support to someone helping to cankle America's daughters.  Good day, Ms. Palin.

The Inspiration For This Journey

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose schlong was so long...

And that's as far as I got.

You can clearly see I'm a writer.  I know I'm a writer (I spend at least 30 minutes every morning crying and screaming "you're a writer, dammit!" at the bathroom mirror).  The disconnect comes because the world doesn't seem to know I'm a writer.

My first campaign involved telling the world, one hot chick in the Soho bar scene at a time.  The ones who were fairly sober or native English speakers usually ignored me.  A few laughed, but an impromptu trip to the men's room to scream and cry my personal affirmations for thirty minutes usually straightened that out.

But the non-native English speakers, and the really beyond plastered drunk hotties, and the not-really-hot-but-do-the-best-with-what-they-have Jersey girls... they fall under the writer's spell that I wield (borrowed simile alert) like a rapier.  The spell I see swimming in their bloodshot, partially closed eyes when they yell over the noise of the bar "you're a waiter?" confirms everything I want to believe.

The other question I'm often asked, "what have you written?"  That's the question that keeps me crying in the mirror every morning.  That's the harsh banshee cry of an alarm clock during a five-alarm hangover pulling me back to reality.  In a time when just saying you are something makes it so, writing remains one of the few hold-outs requiring you to put you money where your mouth is, and both my money and my mouth have been to some extremely dark places.

Which leads me back to where I started this blog post.  For the first time in my life, I feel the need to create and you've seen the grand total of my efforts.  I actually wrote those two lines last week before I posted my first entry here.  Whoever that chick was in my dress shirt last time saw me suffering from a touch of writer's block (just saying that makes me feel like a writer) and mentioned that blogging might get me in the writing habit.  So here I am, two posts in and no further into the writing.

I see Amazon lists a book called How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely.  Looking through the description and only understanding roughly every other word tells me that we're alike.  He wants to write to bang chicks.  I want to write to bang chicks.  Too bad he already wrote about wanting to write to bang chicks because I feel like I would have a lot to say on that subject.  Hopefully my answer lies somewhere in that how-to tome.

There once was a man from Nantucket
whose schlong was so long he could suck it.

It feels good to get that out, like I just got over the hump, crossed that Rubicon.  Maybe that bird whose name I never caught and who seems to have kept that dress shirt was onto something with this blog advice.  Or maybe I just need to scream and cry in the mirror louder.  Either way, I'm off and running.

Blogs v. Facebook

So after my fifth Jameson on the rocks this morning, I decided to finally muster the courage to start this journey.  A dear friend, whose name I can't recall at the moment, posed an important question while wearing nothing but one of my dress shirts as she fixed herself an omelette.  Do I chronicle my journey in a personal blog or as part of a larger Facebook profile?  My retort of "why are you still here?" seemed to get lost in the sizzle of sauteed peppers for said omelette.

Truth be told, the question hadn't occurred to me, so I should be thankful in part.  I had always assumed some kind of blog, which also assumes that "blog" is actually a word, was the way to go, but I decided to research Facebook just to put in due diligence.

According to the tagline for the recent film. The Social Network, you don't get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies, with 500 million being the operative phrase here.  The potential exposure that comes built in to a Facebook profile is very attractive to say the least.  Given that, I decided to look further into who those 500 million people would be.

Well, it turns out the secret to Facebook's success was combining masturbation with the mundane, and apparently jerking off to deathly boring aspects of life was one of the most untapped markets in the history of modern ideas.  At the same time, the obvious simplicity of the idea had me slapping my forehead for not coming up with it first.  That lead me to conduct the following non-scientific experiment.

Take the following: I just clipped my toenails.  On a blog, that inane bit of information filters out into the online universe and passes through an infinite space of indifference, as most blogged information should.  It's the tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear.  On Facebook, I had people "Like this" with little thumbs up icons, other people responded with posts such as "ME TOO!!!  LOL!!!  ;-)."  Within twenty minutes, a "Friend" of mine started the Facebook group I JUST CLIPPED MY TOENAILS LOL.  Twenty minutes after that, the group had 400,000 members and I had 800 new "Friend" request simply from the residual aftershock of being the original "I just clipped my fingernails" poster.  Now I have the option of becoming a fan of I JUST CLIPPED MY TOENAILS to complete this online circle of sadness.

I've been down that Facebook rabbit hole, my friends, and I didn't like what I saw.  Also, is there some Facebook policy preventing naked pictures?  Because after spending most of the day clicking through people's albums, I really didn't like what I saw.  Not sure what kind of self-promotion doesn't involve nudity... something I'll correct on this blog as soon as I figure out how to upload pictures.