How E.L. James inspired this insipid word puddle.

When I was first approached by Chris about the possibility of writing columns on our little slice of the Internet, I was as joyous as a squealing school-girl at a One Direction concert. But then, disaster hit me. WHAT THE HELL DO I WRITE ABOUT?

It was the equivalent of a literary brain freeze. Instead of delicious ice cream, I was surrounded by 31 metaphorical flavors of topics I could cover, and I gorged myself on all of them, and gotten a big ol' headache. Furthermore, I wondered if I could do it. As in, could I even write again? In my weer days, where weer was a word that you could use and it didn't get red underline I used to write all the time. In fact, there was nary a day that I didn't put the proverbial plumed pen that I had plucked from a peacock to parchment. But did I still have it? The spunk, the chutzpah, the moxie, the spunkchutzpahmoxie? Oh yes my dear audience, I did wonder. And while my colleagues assured that my work was good, even passable compared to the previous monkey hired to throw poo at a list of words on the wall, I still had my doubts.


But then, an epiphany! You heard right, me with my glasses and poor posture and awkwardly sweaty body had an epiphany! This picture should sum up what I mean:

E.L. James gave me Fifty Shades of Hope

There it is. My realization. If a Twilight fan-fiction can become a best selling series then I have nothing, absolutely nothing to worry about. Do you think E.L. James gave a shit about being shitty writer who ripped off Stephanie Meyer and drilled deep into the previously un-penetrated (see what I did there?) soft-porn for grannies and aging mothers who have to live out their sexual fantasies vicariously market? Fuck no. She penetrated that market. With words. And sentences. Not many of them making that much sense honestly. So thank you E.L. James, for breaking the scales away from my eyes. If you can turn a bag of shit into money, then I should at least be able to make some people laugh for free with my sweet, sweet tears and sweat and blood that I bleed from my finger-tips when I hammer against my poor keyboard with my arthritic hands as you make me type about you. Damn you.

But what of the subject matter? What can I talk about? What in my misbegotten years could I form a coherent thought of and share with other people? Could I talk comics? Hell yes I could! But Chris is way more informed when it comes to that subject matter, in fact I wouldn't be surprised if he had absorbed by osmosis some of his favorite issues and knew them by heart, line for line. Movies? Television? I haven't watched much TV at all in the last decade of my life or so, but there were a few shows that I kept up with now and then, using my trusted Fonzie method to slap my rabbit eared bedecked aging Zenith into submission. I did go to the cinema pretty frequently, but not as much as my buddy who is occasionally across-the-pond, who is already writing here under the guise of some
mysterious butt-monkey for a certain Col. whose name rimes with Roarville Rocketboxer.

So what then? Toys? Video Games? Music? Nostalgia of yesteryear? My brain filled to the brim with possibilities, bubbled and broiled over like a Lava Lamp left on too long. Then, it fizzled. Hell, I don't know. I'll talk about whatever I damn well please. Starting with this intro, and maybe working itself from there. I could dig through my reprints of EC Comics or talk about how Hungry Hungry Hippos changed my life, or that time I was a radio pirate. Or even Dino-Riders.

So yeah, stay tuned for 'content' whatever that means. It probably means more of this, which if you like it, is good, and if you don't, then you should probably ignore it or send me hate mail Toodles!