I have always believed that a winning title and a fabulous opening sentence more than make up for any deficiencies that might be found within the body of any piece of literature. No matter how unreadable I found “A Tale of Two Cities”, that title - great and the opening line, “…It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” erases all that follows. But that’s just my opinion.

I am a maker of lists that I do nothing with, as you’ll come to see. I like to give five reasons for this or three reasons for that, for what, I don’t know. I usually have trouble backing up my lists. Or worse, I usually lose the point of my lists somewhere between naming and the actual listing. For instance, I’ll give you five really good reasons to bookmark this blog:

1. I need the attention.
2. My life has been nominally interesting.
3. I get a vicarious thrill from the idea that you might identify with some of my kooky ideas.
4. You might learn something.
5. I like the idea that what I have to say, no matter how confessional, shocking or mundane, just might bring a smile to your face.

Now that my list is written down in black and white, it seems that I’ll be getting the most pleasure from your reading this blog. That sounds a bit off. I’m not sure that this exercise is supposed to be entirely for my benefit. Traditionally, isn’t the reader supposed to get the lion’s share of the pleasure, knowledge and feeling? Oh well. I knew I was meant to tell the story (or maybe stories) of my life. I knew I’d go on to great things (maybe like living) and somebody just had to witness them. I guess that task falls to you dear reader.

The idea of running my mouth (or, at least my fingers) came to me in a dream, a vision. I happened to be riding down Wilshire Boulevard, thinking about how to escape my current life by making a lot of money. You might be wondering why on earth I was dreaming while on Wilshire Boulevard. I hope that I was a passenger and not a driver; honestly, I don’t remember. Doesn’t matter, I seem to have waking epiphanies with alarming frequency these days, driving or otherwise. This idea of actually telling the public at large about my numerous life experiences, knocked me over. Literally. Luckily, I got up again and starting scribbling furiously. My friends were always telling me that I live such an interesting life. Shows who my friends are. Yet, I was very young - about twelve, when I first started disguising my life into short stories for the consumption of teachers, classmates and friends. Through the years, I have written countless versions, changing details I didn’t like into ones that I did. I found almost all of my writing readable; others did not. So I stopped. Fear got hold of me. I wondered if anyone, other than me and my dopey friends, would find my life and what I have to say even slightly interesting.

As I got older and the theme of my life, racial blending, came sharply into focus, I started writing again; short stories, opinion pieces, plays, scripts - all taken from my life. Since I can remember, I have yearned to see my story, at least the stories of those like me told in a popular form. Our story, those of us who choose to live without regard for the racial make up of those we meet – or at least we try to do that, is seldom explored by any movie, book or documentary. So I decided that my life might be just the vehicle in which to do it.

So what if a bunch of folks will be offended. Like my parents. Like past lovers. Like old friends and acquaintances, like you. So, I’ll warn you now, if you are easily offended, don't read this. Forward a link to the aunt you never liked or that eccentric teacher for Veteran's Day or something. Because this is all about me. What I think. What I have done (God help me). And what I want to do. And you, dear reader, are a big part of what I want to do. I want to share. I want to educate. I want to commune. I want to love.

Make me happy. Visit this blog. Post comments. Love me.


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