A Rough Beginning
"Oh, I just don't know where to begin..."
Elvis Costello, "Accidents Will Happen"
This blog's name was gleaned from the Beck song "Novacane." Some of you might know it. In fact, most of you might know it. About half of the song is composed of kickass titles for genius works not yet written. Names such as "Undercover Convoy" and "Stillborn And Dazed" This blog was a whim and a listen away from being called "Chromosome Cowboy." I'm sure I would've justified it in some way later. But for those of you (of the two of you) thinking that this journal will live up to it's striking name, I've got news. It probably won't. I can't be Beck. If I were, I'd be funkier, and the previous paragraph would have made less sense. So with resignation not due this awe-inspiring title, I begin my belated blog.
The heavens carry low when pregnant. Does that mean that rainstorms are masculine? I only ask because I need to know the correct expletive to use when I am suddenly douched with rain. As has occurred the past week. Continually. "Bitch," I yell. "Bastard," I yell. "Bastitch," I compromise. The worst douching came on Friday when I tried to return from a much-needed workout at the gym. I carried my MP3 player, as silence disturbs me on long excursions, and headed for home with precarious cumulostratus providing my ceiling. About halfway home, the sky began falling in a manner most hardcore. I tucked the MP3 into the pocket of my sweats and attempted to provide an outcropping of flesh to protect it from the deluge. The resulting gait resembled what one might imagine of a hunchback. In addition to this, the heavy rain soaked through my hair and began pouring down into my eyes. To regain any semblance of vision, I had to squint and gnarl all of the muscles in my face.
I want to suck your blood! No, wait...
My Quasimodo impression was complete. About seven eigths of the way there, I ran past a pair of couples carrying large umbrellas. They snorted and asked me "How ya doin, guy?" When I saw them I planned on yelling "The bells! The bells!" to truly go all out with the impression, but when I saw that they had already taken joy in my suffering, I merely said, "I'm great!" and jogged calmly past them. No fair taking joy unless I let you. I had to bolt the last eighth of the way home. I would've made Wally West proud. Upon entering my apartment, I discovered my MP3 player was bone dry. I exulted in my triumph, and showered out of habit. The end.
I'm bad at ending stories.
Be patient, gentle readers. There will be more to come.