The Hangover Begins
I was advised by an old friend (and industry professional) that I should have a blog. I didn’t see the point.
“Doesn’t everyone who types have one? Aren’t there enough opinions floating around out there?”
“None of them are yours.”
“Plenty of them are outraged, though.”
“Plenty of them are bullshit. You’re always claiming to be a man of the people. Here’s your chance.”
This is what happens when one is taken somewhat seriously.
My desire to write may have been sparked by a combination of third grade creative writing and Matt Christopher sports books. It was later fueled by countless hours of Ray Davies, Jagger and Richards, and Pete Townsend (who is also responsible for my fondness for Remy Martin). Henry Miller made me realize it was possible. From there emerged the Pantheon of the Bookshelf: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Andre Dubus, John Irving, and others who showed what could be achieved.
I’ve published short stories in a variety of literary journals, yet you won’t find me reading Kafka in a Starbucks. I’ve penned feature articles, tech guides, product reviews, and training manuals, but I don’t own a corduroy jacket with patches on the sleeves. In the height of my youth (which admittedly stretched into my thirties) I whipped off three-chord songs for my former band, The Syphlloids. These days, it’s the goddaughter who wears my leather jacket. I’ve retreated to a tourist town on the coast of Maine, where it’s quiet but not exactly sailboats and gin and tonics. Thanks to the onset of distance education, I teach writing to students around the planet. And with two kids to send to college, I still pull some shifts behind a bar. Somewhere along the way I have become a responsible adult.
Now there is The Hangover. That each post could be influenced by Joey Ramone and Gore Vidal seems reason enough.
–Albert R. Waitt III