Some of you know this is my second blog – I started my first one while I was finishing my degree on the 20-year university plan, and it simply proved to be too much – but, I miss writing short little missives every day, in addition to my other creative endeavors (i.e., programming my universal remote to control everything in the universe – otherwise, it’s false advertising, smoking a bowl and seeing what shapes I can find in the Crunch N’ Munch – you know, important shit like that), so I’m back.

To the rest of you who are new to my wily ways, I say, “Hey!  Come on up here on the porch!  Sit a spell.  Light a cigarette.  Have a beer.  Let’s shoot the shit, shall we?  Shit’s easy to shoot, ’cause it’s hard to miss, and it don’t matter if you do.

I’ve got some great stories to tell, and I promise to protect the two or three innocent parties that may have been around at the time those stories took place.  As of this missive, I’m…

… hang on.  What year is it?  2009?  Okay.  That makes me….

…I’m 37 (Note to those of you who don’t already know, but gay men stop counting after 30, because as Tennessee Williams said, “Darlin’ from 31 on, you better be married or rich” – or something like that.  He was slurring.  He probably actually said, “BRIM ME ANOTHA GAWDAM BOURBON, YA FUCKIN’ MAN WHOA!”  Tennsy was a man after my own heart.)

Anywho, I’m 37 (which in gay years is dead), and I’ve got stories to tell that will curl your toes and straighten your hair, and I’m never going to write my autobiography.  People like Sedaris and Burroughs have done it far better and funnier than I ever could, and that Oprah Book Club asshole has taken all the fun out of publishing any embellishments.  And after all, what the hell good is a story if every word of it’s true?

You see, my friends, I am a raconteur.  No, not a member of one of Jack White’s bands, although that would be pretty cool, as long as he promised to NEVER EVER record another James Bond theme song (I cried. I really did.  If Amy Winehouse could have kept her shit straight for 24 hours, it probably would have been the best Bond song ever, instead of that screaming shit Jack did with Miss Keys).

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  I’m a raconteur.  A storyteller.  I’m like Rod Stewart, only American, with less hair and with no mole.  So, I’m gonna tell y’all some stories.  Scouts honor (and I was a Boy Scout – a big, gay, faggoty Boy Scout, so stuff that up your American Family Values asses), that all of the stories will be BASED in truth.  It will be up to the reader or those who may have been present to determine the amount of truth in each story.

Hell, if you catch me at the right time, low on bloody mary mix and high on Stoli, I might fuck up and tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.  But I won’t admit it the next day.

And since this is MY blog, I’ll also offer commentary, like they used to do at the end of the Cape Girardeau and Jonesboro news broadcasts, only I won’t be wearing a bad toupee.  I might be wearing a blond wig and fuck-me pumps, but definitely NOT a toupee.  Or tweed.  I hate tweed.  Tweed sucks.  Tweed is the suckiest of all the sucky fabrics.  ESPECIALLY with elbow patches.  Who the fuck needs elbow patches?  What are they for?  Are you going to keep that sportcoat so fucking long that your ashy elbows (remember to moisturize, y’all) gonna poke through the gawdam thing?  What the fuck?  If you’re wearing a tweed sportcoat with (hang on – I have to swallow a little bile) fucking elbow patches, then put down the mouse and move away from the computer.  Go write a check to the English Lit department of your local community college, and never read this blog again.  We’ll both be happier.  Christ.

Oh, see?  There was a little sartorial commentary for you right there.  Only I’ll usually comment on politics or current affairs or the fact that people who live in Boston suck donkey dicks and never return phone calls when their oldest friends drunk dial them because said Bostonians are too busy sucking donkey dicks or whatever it is fucking Yankees do in Beantown when they’ve run out of donkeys (that’s not commentary, folks – just a fact – Google it).  Assholes.

There will also be a schedule, albeit a loose one.  Tuesdays will be reserved for discussions regarding pop culture, since Tuesday is “new release day.”  I’ll discuss my take on new music and maybe what’s hitting DVD that week, new movies and good books you simply MUST read when you’re not reading my blog or scanning peopleofwalmart.com for lost family members.  Since I have impeccable taste, you’ll definitely want to tune in on Tuesdays.

Wednesdays will be poetry days, when I will post poetry (hence the theme, for those of you slow on the uptake).  Some will be funny, some won’t.  Some will be song lyrics waiting for Sir Elton to come along and write the music.  I’ll be a Bernie Taupin waiting in vain; but first, I’ll have to remember how to write in iambic pentameter and the rules of haiku.  Many poems will be scatological in nature, because I have the sense of humor of a 13-year-old, and find poop incredibly funny.

Most Sundays will be downbeat, because I’ll be nursing a hangover.

Many posts will be fraught with typos because I don’t have the time or energy to write this shit and edit it, too.  So the grammar and spelling police can go fuck themselves right fucking now.  Or, they can move to Boston with the rest of the Yankee assholes. 

Honestly, when an old friend you haven’t talked to in 10 years or seen in 20 drunk dials you at 4:00 in the morning, it is your duty as a human being to pick up the phone and chat with them as if you were just sitting there by the phone, waiting for their call.  And if you actually sleep through the call, you are required to return the call the very next afternoon.  Those are the rules, people.  I didn’t make this shit up, Moses or David or Peter or Jesus or somebody did.  It’s in the Bible, right along with, “Thou shall not wear polyester while eating shellfish with faggots.” Damn.

I will make one promise to my readers:  I will try to post something, no matter how short, each day, but I do have a life outside of the Interwebs.  As my profile says, I’m a workaholic, and if I’m not billing hours, I’m not getting paid; as such, there will come times when deals must be closed and I won’t be able to post.  It doesn’t mean that I’m dead or depressed (I have magical Mexican diet pills for that, thank you).  It just means that I have other matters which require my attention.

I hope y’all enjoy this.  Hell, I hope I enjoy this. Ready?  Here we go.

Cheers,
Max