My presidential slogan

Destined to be remembered forever as the actor that portrayed screechy-voiced, Nixon-loving prick Alex P. Keaton and lame time-traveler Marty McPenis-face (Can’t remember the character’s last name), few people know Michael J Fox got his first big break acting in the kick-ass cult classic Midnight Madness.

Midnight Madness is the story of a bunch of college kids who are chosen by some hash head to play this really intense scavenger hunt. The college kids are divided into these color-coded teams, and they run around town finding clues and all sorts of goofy crap. Blah blah blah…

Any way, Fox plays some annoying little shit with daddy issues and is pretty forgettable. But, the movie is awesome because of a character named Barf. I love Barf a lot. His personality is exactly how you imagine an in-bred child raised next to a nuclear waste dump would be. Basically, he has the IQ of a peanut and the stunning looks of Sloth from the Goonies.

Here Barf tries his hand at arranging a series of cut out letters into a word that he thinks solves one of the clues:




Oddly enough, Barf’s quintessential “Fagabeefe” catchphrase used to ring through my brain at random moments throughout the last twenty years: during wedding ceremonies, physics class lectures, break dance competitions, etc.

I had all but forgotten the catchphrase until this presidential elections. That's when I decided that if I ever run for office, I’m not going to go with some esoteric, make-me-feel-good-about-my-future slogan like “Change” or “Hope.”

Nope. When I run for office, it’s gonna be: Anderson 2012: Fagabeefe!

Who needs Rambo?

Thanks to the investigative reporting powers of the Weekly World News, I feel safe from those evil and vicious doers (or is it vicious evil-doers?). It seems our military has a new secret weapon in its War on Terrorism:



All you terrorists better watch out 'cause we bringing bat boy to yo house!


Everybody chant with me: U-S-A! U-S-A!! U-S-A!!! B-A-T!!! B-O-Y!!!!

I live!

I am back from a 10-day spiritual journey of gargantuan proportions. It was intense and prevented me from writing. You wouldn't believe it: My Internet connection was down; there was a death in the family; the dog ate my homework; I was overcome by a deblitating bout of fugoparkicspinobatosis; David Caruso kicked MY ass. In any event, I feel reborn, shoved back out of a warm and cozy placenta and into the world.

Oh hell. I’ll be honest: I just haven’t had time to write my blog. The last week, I’ve spent much of my time reworking my resume and applying for several rather lucrative web content management positions around the Cleveland area. Much to my surprise, I have been called back for interviews. The prospects are good.

I will begin blogging on a regular basis again very, very soon. I have much to tell you, my disciples!

Be cool; stay in school.

David Caruso could kick Daniel Day Lewis's ass

He may not look like your stereotypical Hollywood actor, but David Caruso is to acting what Michelangelo and Picasso were to painting.

I have been spent the last twenty minutes searching for excessively poetic ways to describe Caruso’s incredible acting powers, but my thesaurus has a limited selection of synonyms for “Kick ass” “sa-weet” and “like really, really good,” so I’ll just leave say it as simply and plainly as I can: David Caruso can freaking act.

You don’t believe me? You don’t trust my keen analysis of the thespian arts? Well, fine. You can just judge for yourselves. Below is a montage of Caruso’s greatest acting moments on the unbelievably awesome and well-written television crime show “CSI: Miami.”



I’m sure at some point this guy is going to win an Emmy for his drama skills. I mean its not like Daniel Day Lewis (star of “There Will Be Blood”) could recite a hip one-liner and then throw on a pair of sunglasses anywhere close to as well as David Caruso. And yet, all you ever here about is “Daniel Day Lewis, oh great actor. So good in that boring movie about oil.” Pa-lease.

Besides, Caruso could kick Daniel Day Lewis’ ass any day. And as Caruso stood over his bloody body, he’d say “I guess you were right ‘There was blood,’ (Insert "YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" sound clip)” and then throw on his sunglasses and walk off into the Miami sunset.

So, there. And if you still don’t believe that Caruso is the best actor ever, then just take Caruso’s advice:

The great Walmart electric shopping cart race

Gosh, I am the biggest boob on Earth. I mean I just don’t think sometimes. Take yesterday, for instance. On my way home from another boring day at work, I stopped into the Walmart in Eastlake. I figured I’d see what kind of stuff was on sale, maybe even buy some groceries. So, I started wandering the aisles, perusing the high-quality products and wouldn’t you know it: I ended up ruining some kind of electric shopping cart race!

Now in my defense, there weren’t any signs or any lanes marked off for the race, and come to think of it, none of the plump people on the carts were wearing numbers, but I’m damn sure there was some kind of race going on. After all, I must have counted about seven or eight people zooming around the store on those motorized things. And me being ignorant and stupid and moronic, I just got in the way, clogging up aisles with my damned able-body.

Whatever type of race it was, these people sure were focused. I specifically recall one blubbery sweat-pants-wearer squeezing his electric shopping cart passed me in the macaroni and cheese aisle. He was strangely entranced. I’m sure it was some kind of athletic, dogged determination, but I could have sworn the guy was just in some kind of zombie –like state on an undead quest to purchase enormous Cheese whiz canisters.

Like I said, I don’t know what the race was. There was no track, no referee and no finish line. It was weird. Maybe they had checkpoints or something along the way, because I kept seeing these electric cart people in specific areas - like the Randy Travis CD sale rack, the “As Seen on TV” back hair removal kit and Funyans party bag sections.

I admit I was pleased to see the race was a co-ed event that seemed open to anybody who wanted to enter except: elderly people, pregnant women or physically disabled individuals. This was probably because they have slower reactions or something, and the organizers didn’t want to endanger any of the other drivers.

Well, I was really distracted by the race and everything so I didn't actually buy anything. But before I left, I made sure to go over to the store manager and apologize profusely for my ankles repeatedly getting in the way of these electric cart racers. He just kind of blinked in my direction.

Man, I really need to pay more attention and stop doing stupid thing.

It takes a village...of hillbillies

An interesting phenomonen is sweeping America: Some powerful pickup trucks have recently grown long, dangling testicles. Whether you’re on Interstate 90 in Ashtabula County, Ohio, or the backroads of Appalachian Tennessee, you can see these well-endowed pickup trucks zooming past you, leaving you in a wake of Nascar exhilaration and cigarette smoke.

Of course, not everyone drives trucks with testicles. No. It takes a certain type of person: the few, the proud, the hillbilly. Not happy with the standard hallmarks of hillbilly pride (Nascar t-shirts with cut off sleeves, Rebel flags flapping in the wind, television sets on the front porches), some men are now proclaiming their intense hillbilliness by adding prosthetic testicles to their trucks.

I think the theory is that these testicles artistically symbolize the driver and the pickup truck’s “power,” “manliness.” But they just really annoy me. I mean everybody knows testicles are ugly, and I don’t want to be reminded of my anatomical ugliness when I’m driving down the road, trying to find a good radio station, text my pals and eat yogurt all at the same time. You know?

And any way, I have found it much easier and classy to demonstrate my scrotal fortitude by trimming my nose hairs, going to batting cages or writing something. I don’t need to attach a pair of highly realistic balls to my car.

I never thought I’d say this: I wish we could just go back to the days when overly self-indulgent sports cars were the way to symbolize a driver’s latent manliness... At least, then I didn’t have to actually see anything.

Vicious Christmas Wench

There's something to be said about the magic of the Christmas spirit. It's so powerful in fact that right on the day after Thanksgiving (which traditionally marks the return of the Christmas holiday season) seemingly normal American women transform into that lovable Christmas shopper: The Vicious Christmas Wench.

Once overcome by the spirit of Christmas, Christmas Holiday Wench instinctively and aggressively curses cash register clerks, steals parking spots and scrounges through toy aisles like a looter in the East L.A. riots.

I worked at JC Penney's during the winter break of my sophomore year in college. It was a challenging job that involved folding clothes, ringing out fat patrons and well...folding clothes. Vicious Christmas Wenches often appeared at my register. I usually could tell by their clenching teeth and the pulsing veins in their forehead that I was in for trouble. Generally, throughout a two minute checkout, Vicious Christmas Wenches would be sure to explain to me (in a tone that denoted a certain air of lunacy) that:

• the lines were horrible
• I wasn't ringing fast enough
• if I was going to work a cash register, I should shave
• my smirk was not appreciated
• the store was a mess
• the parking lot was icy and cold
• prices in the store did not match the prices in the paper
• I needed to pop that zit on my chin IMMEDIATELY
  

Being the kind, compassionate person that I am I usually replied with an "Ummmm, whatever."

If my experience in dealing with the numerous Vicious Christmas Wenches has taught me anything, its to lay low, view from afar and when push comes to shove, use MC Hammer dance moves to ward off coming attacks from this cranky Christmas shopper.

To help you better defend yourself against these hate-filled Christmas creatures, I have kindly provided training for you in the Youtube video below. I hope you appreciate this and send money to my "Buy the cowboy some yogurt fund" which will be coming to fruition in January of 2009. In the meantime, Turn this mutha out (ghetto for - "dance away those Vicious Christmas Wenches")!

Jonathan Bell 3:16

WARNING: Many followers of real religions such as Catholicism, Protestantism, The Church of Latter Day Saints, Islam and Judaism are being mislead! I know this to be true, because I heard this powerful news directly from the most incredible prophet to hit public access television: Jonathan Bell – the fuzzy-haired Dallas TV evangelist.

After hearing the tempestuous religi-geek speak, I don't know how I lived my first 32-years at all. His words of spiritual love are so inspiring and fill me so full of religious fervor that I just want to give him a really aggressive noogy. Preacher Bell is real religion: bad hair, repressed teen angst and screaming.

But don’t take my word for it. Please listen to clips from the divine sermons of tele-apostle Jonathan Bell:



What you’ll glean from this montage of preaching are the seven awesome commandments of Jonathan Bell:

1. Thou shalt not go to church on Sunday and think that thou art doing God a big favor.
2. Thou shalt not put only 2 bucks on the offering plate and think that everything is just cool.
3. Thou shalt not sacrifice babies and melt those babies into candles to give thou more demonic power.
4. Thou shalt not show up at Jonathan Bell’s door and threaten his life.
5. Thou shalt not laugh at Jonathan Bell, thou idiot.
6. Thou shalt not be fat and sit on the couch eating Doritos.
7. Thou shalt not look for love in a gay bar because there is no love there, and thou KNOW IT!

I’ve tried desperately to adhere to these commandments, of course. I admit, though, I am struggling with the urge to violate the fourth commandment. Don't worry, I have been taking massive doses of anti-schizophrenic pills to curb such thoughts. I just don’t want to let Mr. Bell down.

Please, my lost brothers and sisters, find your way! Review the seven commandments on a daily basis. I would hate for some evil demon to take over your soul or worse yet – a Satanist to melt you into a candle!

The semi-annual CAA Awards

It's that time of year again: Time to hand out the prestigious Cowboy Ace Anderson Awards! Let's get right too this thing:

The CAA award for best audition: the karate geeks of Hollywood Hills



The CAA award for best murder scene: Silent Night Deadly Night 2



The CAA award for funniest soundboard prank: Celebrity prank calling (Dr. Phil)



The CAA award for dramatic excellence: Troll 2



The CAA award for most awesome rock performance: Some Swedish rock band




The CAA award for funniest car theft: stupid teen "ghosting"




The CAA award for most honest NFL post-game interview: Jim Mora




The CAA Lifetime Achievement award: Tourettes Guy (may he rest in peace)



Congratulations to all of the recipients. Your commitment to excellence is inspiring. if you have any questions about how YOU can be a potential CAA winner, simply do something stupid, post it on Youtube and leave a comment. I will do my best to add you to the sophisticated award review process.

* NOTE: All awards are spiritual in nature and have no monetary or psychological benefits what so ever. We cannot be held responsible for any consequences associated with your winning a CAA.

Manly food

As if I didn't have a masculine enough persona (what with my penchant for bubble baths and bath salts), I now have fallen in love with yogurt. I just tried yogurt for the first time in probably 25 years the other day and I'll be damned if it isn't just the most fantastic treat ever created.

Despite the fact that when I eat yogurt my self image goes from this to this, I can take solace in the fact that yogurt is better for me than any of the other treats I jam down my throat in a given day, namely:

• Fruit Gushers
• Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
• Chocolate chip cookies
• Spam - the miracle meat

I admit, that I have a terrible fear of yogurts with the fruit at the bottom. The mere site of them sends me into an uncontrollable dry heave. I'm seeking help for this by watching highly informative and inspirational Jerry Springer shows.

Any way, try some yogurt today. You and your taste buds will be happy you did.

The newest member of the Obama Administration: Dr. Phil

With all the recent news and speculation about who will be selected to be a member of President-elect Obama’s administration, I couldn’t help but rack my brain to come up with suggestions. After much critical thinking and drooling, it hit me: President-elect Obama should appoint Dr. Phil McGraw to head up a newly formed Department of Pseudo-psychology.

You see, if Dr. Phil has the psychological prowess to diagnose, rehabilitate and embarrass even the most hardened psychopath in the span of a 60 minutes just think what he could do with national issues – I’m not sure which national issues, but I’m sure he can handle them. Ok, here’s the bottom line: intellectual capacity like Dr. Phil’s cannot go to waste. So I propose we make up a department he can head up and help Americans with all sorts of stuff: the Department of Pseudo-psychology.

The Department of Pseudo-psychology could have countless roles in this administration. It could help politicians, business leaders and news anchors with self esteem issues. It could promote the use of country clichés to combat depression. It could even establish a national hugathon to help payoff the national debt.

Of course, Dr. Phil would be the main weapon of this exciting new department. I see him working closely with the Department of Education to improve mathematic performance - “Those video games aren’t going to help you get a job, Johnny. Your math is” (Audience applause). I see him coordinating his efforts with the Department of Health and Human Services to reduce the obesity epidemic - “You aren’t gonna be any happier by just feeding your face. So snap out of it” (Audience applause).

But, probably his most important role in the administration will be to work one-on-one with foreign enemies to improve their view of Americans. Just imagine if Dr. Phil could get Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to sit on his couch and talk to him. “Now Mahmoud, do you feel loved? Cause I get the sense that you really need a hug. And that’s ok. I am here for you.” (Audience applause)

If you aren’t convinced already, you will be after this crucial point: the appointment of Dr. Phil and his magical mustache to the Obama Administration would add an aura of credibility to an administration severely lacking in facial hair.

As Obama’s administration takes shape, let’s hope he heeds my words. America and the world needs Dr. Phil.

Hyper update

• Working on 15-page research paper on the Patriot Act and its impact on privacy


• Saw sunrise this morning


• At office now, creating web pages


• Need to shave


• Look like a cross between Forrest Gump when he is running for 2 years and a dark-haired Opy from the Andy Griffith show


• I am in love with this man:

Long John Silver

Startling confession: I am an obsessive compulsive "Long John" wearer. From November through March, my body is eternally hugged by an awesome set of thermal pants and shirts. I just love the snug feeling, the loving embrace if you will of those things.

I'm a firm believer in layers to beat the frigid cold of our winters here in Cleveland. My long johns really keep me warm and enable me to leave the house without putting on a 10 pound winter coat. And the best thing is: long johns are appropriate for all occassions because they are hidden safely beneath any clothing you care to wear. Even when I go into the office dressed in bland business casual wardrobe, I've got those toasty suckers on (I admit, the temperate 70 degree atmosphere of my office makes me sweat).

Now, If I could find an affordable full body pajama, like tots wear - but for adults, I would ABSOLUTELY buy one to sleep in. It would be the perfect addition to my winter wardrobe. Or even one of those one-piece undergarments the folks in the Wild West used to wear, you know, with the little flap on the butt that you can open to do your number 2 duty. I realize I would look preposterous wearing one, but I'll be damned if I didn't end up a preposterous looking guy who was really warm!

Classic images

Below are some of my favorite images of all time. The life lessons you can learn from these are priceless. Enjoy:

Message to my readers

If I could say just one thing to you across the plains or mountains or oceans or winter-bare forests between us, I would say to you plainly and honestly this:

The world needs you - the seeker, the dreamer, the lover, the believer. You, in all your radiant, one-of-a-kind glory, make life a little brighter. Thank you.

With love on a lonely night,
Cowboy

Sweeny Todd attacks

I have always hated shaving. I tend to cut myself often, and the sound of the razor sliding slowly down my face reminds me of when I would sand some lame wooden trinket I was forced to make in 7th grade shop class. I guess my facial hair is just incredibly coarse.

So last night, I’m shaving my stubbly cheeks and neck (leaving the goatee) and sure enough I cut myself. This time, I cut myself just above a little mole I have on the left side of my neck. This cut bled consistently for over an hour and a half! You’d think Sweeny Todd got a hold of me.

Thankfully, I survived the cut. But I may just grow out my beard. Maybe I’ll sport the ZZ Top look. It could save me a lot of pain and suffering.

Color me bad

Ok, I really need to get a handle on the layout options for this blog thing. My color scheme is putrid, and every time I try to tweak it, I seem to change the wrong area of my blog. I'm looking for something simple, yet earthy - maybe some light browns with white. I don't know. Every time I try to mess with it, I get too frustrated. I'm hoping some computer glitch zaps my layout into coolness or something.

Four-door Florida: Battling the Cleveland sludge

The word “sludgy” best describes the weather on the days when the first white droppings of any winter in Cleveland arrive. It’s usually not snowy, because the temperature on these days tend to teeter-totter around 34 degrees and alternately freezes and thaws the falling rains. It’s just grossly icy and hail-y…leaving gray-white slop all over the landscape.

Roads are atrocious when it is sludgy. A thin layer of ice masquerading as rainwater blankets the roads sending unsuspecting and overconfident drivers into slip sliding spin outs. Stopping smoothly is nearly impossible, and even driving in a straight line is difficult.

This morning was definitely sludgy. On my drive to work, I saw a man in a mid-90’s Cadillac begin to fish-tail wildly. He was driving along down the highway when his back end suddenly jetted out to one side. A semi-truck in the next lane clipped his back end and sent him spinning off like a cyclone into the highway divider after his car did four complete revolutions. Luckily, the driver exited the car unscathed, and the damage to the car was surprisingly minimal.

I am anxious to see how my new car handles the Cleveland winter. One HUGE upgrade over my previous car is the automatic starter that I have on my key chain. I now can start my car from the comforts of my room by simple pressing a button. I can then get dressed, brush my teeth, and when I get into the car, I will be sitting in 75 degrees of blasting heat – like a four-door Florida.

Take that, sludge.

November chill

I know winter is just around the corner now. When I am outside, every footstep I take is accompanied by the rustle and crunch of fallen leaves.

My Internet is finally up and running. I will be back to the grind with this writing thing very soon. I joined a team called "The Anecdote," and I am excited to make a contribution.

Time to get back to sleep. I am outrageously tired.

Damn

My Internet is disconnected. Apparently, there is a billing issue. Uggggg. Gonna have to sit on the phone for 45 minutes interacting with computer menus to get my Internet access up and running again: Press 1 for this sucks Press 2 for kill me now or press 3 for talk to a live operator.

I'm at my office cubicle typing this in... I can't figure out if my getting on here during work is an example of dedication to writing daily or sheer apathy towards working.

Will write soon.

This can't be Cleveland

Blue skies, sun, 70 degrees. This can't be Cleveland.

A very un-Novemberlike day made for a very un-Clevelandesque landscape. It's usually frigid and gray and dead all over by this time each year. In the winter, we can go weeks without seeing the sun. In fact, they say that only Seattle rivals Cleveland when it comes to cloudy days, and winter is especially sunless.

Winter gets to you after a while, and I can sense that weather and its blah skies are just on the doorstep.

How perfect it would have been to follow that sun west today- just keep driving until I hit New Mexico or Arizona, hell maybe even continue on to the San Juaquin Valley or some magical place like that. It's been three years since the last time I wandered West. And I miss the excitement of getting in the car and driving until your legs cramp up.

Plugging in

It took over 9 years, but I finally put a new battery in my electric bass today. Apparently, the on-board EQ system (which is really just 4 shiny, unmarked knobs on the front of my bass) needs a 9-volt battery to run. Without a working battery, my electric bass is silent.

Long ago, I realized my bass's coma-like state was likely brought on by a dead battery, but my interest and inspiration to get the overpriced thing running again had waned. In 1999, just when I was in the full throws of a music-centered existence, I was working at a recording studio. It was exciting for about a day, until I realized I would have to listen to the same song hundreds of times a day. It was like torture when it was a good song, you can't imagine the suffering when songs were terrible - which most of them were. Reference point: I remember one teenage death metal band I recorded had a song with a screaming chorus of "WHYYYYYYYYY?" Over and over and over and over finally culminating in a whimpering: "I can smell you from here, bitch." Yeah, good stuff.

Needless to say this quite quickly drained my enthusiasm for music. At the time, I was entertaining thoughts of becoming a professional bass player. It would have been the culmination of a dream that began in high school. By 1998 my last year as an undergrad, I was in a pretty serious band. Over the course of two years, we played many dives in Cleveland and around Northeast Ohio. I'd like to think we were entertaining. I mean we really did write some catchy alt-rock songs - really. But alas, like most bands, we were done in by in-fighting and jealousy. We went our separate ways in the winter of 1999, leaving only a 3-song demo CD and countless memories of smoky bars and ear-splitting sound checks.

I don't know if the nostalgia hit me or if I was embarrassed by my purchasing a top of the line instrument only to have it sit untouched for 9 years, but today I finally decided to change that battery and plug in.

Who knows what this will lead to, maybe I'll learn some jazz, something new and exciting and challenging. Something.

Kerouac

I just finished the Subterraneans by Jack Kerouac. I found the style a little gimmicky until I reached the end and realized the bull-rush prose - no punctuation and frequent asides - were all tied in to the story.

Kerouac's stuff has really influenced me. Of course, I don't hold any misconceptions about him or his writing - he was a slobbering, bullying drunk most of the hours he was awake for many years. There is footage on Youtube of him outside a NY bar being ultra-aggressive and seemingly manic in discussion with some woman; even Ginsberg is visibly disturbed by his antics.

His prose is far from magical, most of the time it is clunky and vague. However, the ideas that Kerouac expressed and his philosophy is thoroughly engaging. He laid it all out there. He expressed with honesty and striking guts.

I admire his belief that true writing should be like jazz: an expression of what you are feeling at the time with no filter, no rethinking, straight from the head to the typewriter. Even if this didn't create the most amazing prose, it did give you a literal explanation of what Kerouac was feeling at the time.

I also greatly respect his anti-materialism, his anti-consumerism. This was in striking contrast to prevailing post WWII America and certainly to 21st Century American thought. Kerouac got off on experiencing the people and places in America. Too often today, our experiences are hinged to materialistic conceptions of good times: Disneyland, Las Vegas, big weddings, etc. Kerouac and the beats were all about sensing and experiencing each other, irrespective of price tags and marketing driven pseudo-events.

The Marathoners

The line trickles forward, their long stringy muscles powering legs on and on through fog of 45 degree November morning. Sweater-clad volunteers offer up paper cups of water and “you’re doing great” encouragement…and the sun inches higher.

A soft tap tap of airy footsteps echoes, proclaiming their presence. Sweat beads up on grimacing faces; eyes squint out the bright reflections from the dew-speckled landscape. They move along, driven by dogged determination…and the sun inches higher.

One by one they pass me as I wait quietly, warm and reflecting in my four-door Grand Marquis. I can hear their numbers flap, taped loosely to the front of light-as-a-feather tank tops. Almost out of sight now, I drive away, envious…and the sun inches higher.

Ghoulish outlook

Halloween – Kids, candy bags, and costumes, the sound of leaves crunching under pitter patter footsteps, wind and darkness.

I used to be thrilled when holidays would come around. Now, I find it all a mixture of obligatory gestures, rampant consumerism, and unavoidable frustration. I credit this to my current life and not to an entirely morbid permanent change in me. Ahhh conventions conventions.

My drug of choice

Dreary days make me tired. I’m drained much of my awake time due to lack of sleep, frustration and the day-to-day nonsense of my current life - too much drama, too many life-or-death moments.

Sleep is my drug of choice these days, and right now, I'm all out. I'm wigged out and strung out. I miss that inviting solace in the silent moments before I finally succumb to sleep - an excitingly, fuzzy numbness that blots out everything. Soon after those murky moments, I slowly slip down the darkening slope of sleep, tumbling into myself, swimming through the muck of my brain until visions and sounds and smells of dreams jolt through me. I swear I could sleep for weeks on end. It is my home of solitude, the last unspoiled thing in my life. Bar the door, I'm not coming out alive.

Related idea: I’ve heard of many writers transcribing their dreams, laying it all out there for people to interpret and at some point, I will keep a dream journal – if not for nothing more than to try to express the most surrealistic version of me possible. But for now, just writing this has taken an incredible amount of self-control. God, I’ve tumbled.

The beginning - an explanation

It's been two and a half years since I've written anything - certainly an odd fact considering I am a professional writer for 8 years. Despite my being an advertising copywriter and sports journalist, my true passion was (imagine this) to write the great American novel. The total loss of literary ambition comes on the heals of two tumultuous years of upheaval and self-inflicted personal chaos. The roller coaster ride my life has been on shows no signs of ending.

Thus far, I have endured - with a little more gray in my hair and weary bags under my eyes. Slowly, I'm realizing I might be a little more invigorated about life and love if I returned to my writing roots.

Random background blurb: I earned my bachelor's degree in English from Kent State University in the alive and thriving nineties. I dabbled loosely in the artistic hopefulness that comes from taking creative writing classes and reading piles and piles of "great books." But, besides a few juvenile attempts to shock teachers with my detailed prose, my writing failed to grab the attention of anyone other than me. Of course, when I re-read my work from that time, I am mildly embarrassed by the writings' self-conscious, calculated, and derivative prose.

In writing, voice is the key, and I had little of it because I had no me. I had no beliefs or experiences or guts to put it right there on the page for all to criticize or ridicule. I didn't understand that what the world needs is not another Jack Kerouac or James Joyce or Chuck Pahlaniuk, what the world needed was me - the honest, untethered truth of me, and you and any other writer who just wants to give themselves to their readers.

In short, my starting this blog is an attempt to finally get it right: to write precisely and honestly about my life, my loves and my view on this crazy, insane world we live in. Any other goal is trivial.