Friday, June 28, 2013

Frank and Ernest...

I have new blog posts (and some rehashes of things that have happened in the period when I wasn't really writing) percolating in my mostly gin-fueled brain, O my droogs and only friends, but I feel that in this new and improved (which can't really be, can it? There's no way for something to be both new, AND improved) blog of mine, I should come from a place of greater honesty perhaps.

So here goes:

Jay, my closest friend and my Don Cheadle, is named Jared. He still makes sure I am ok. Jared is also a good 15 years younger than me. My point with this is threefold:  you can't always pick the person that is going to be the friend you really need from your peer group; you won't always understand why the person that is THAT friend is really THAT friend (or what you bring to the friendship that is of any worth); and that age is truly, no shit, just a number.

I have several other friends who make sure, in one way or another, that I am OK. They are, in no preferential order:  Shane, Scott, Tammy, Seebe, Daniel, Michele, Heather, and even Doug.

I say "even Doug" in that way, because I would've never picked him to be a friend of my own accord.  But life is teaching me that the Big Man spinning the Universe puts you in the path of people who you will end up needing, and upon whom, ultimately, you can rely.

My name is Dave. Those of you who bought my book already knew this. No, my last name is not really Sardonic. But I latched onto something funny, and sort of appropriate, and it stuck. I am not sorry, nor do I apologize.

I am a fucking asshole. Let's get that right out of the way right now. Oh yes, I paint myself in a light here where I come across as borderline saint, and perhaps many would agree with that. I am not. I can be cold, heartless, even cruel. I can revel in being cruel. I can love it, enjoy it, and even frolic in it. I hate that about myself. But I will never be rid of it either.

The only things I love more than myself (and I mean only, my beloved non-existent readers. I have thought long and hard about it, and I have come to the conclusion that while I have loved others almost as much as I love myself, the only things on this planet that make me feel my heart as much as it can be felt!) are watching Shrek 3 in the other room and practicing the loading and reloading of Nerf weaponry.

You've met them before, but I want to introduce you to them proper:  their names are Cameron and Ridley. Nos. 1 and 2, respectively.

I hope to continue to bring to this, my blog, however small or insignificant, the same aplomb and sarcasm, the same wit and angst, the same sadness and laughter, that I always have. I see signs already of a big shift in those of you I had come to think of as my stalwart and true non-existent readers. And because I no longer lie to myself, I really don't blame the ones who have left my tiny but important space on the World Wide Web for better climes.

I hope to clear the air as to what has become of me in the last year, year and a half, but I am not even sure that I can, or that it would make any sense. I am not sure that I even fully comprehend what, O my droogs, really HAS become of me, and so trying to sort it out in a blog post seems, at best, futile.

It's a process, a journey. Our companions are not always intended for the entire journey. Some have a specific role to play, and when it's done, they fade away from the storyline. Others, like Scott or Shane or Jared, will span the entire passing of the narrative that is someone's plot, someone's chapter, someone's life.

May you, those hangers on, the TRULY stalwart and true, be as blessed as I have found myself in recent times in your luck with these sorts of friends. May you be that sort of friend back. I am not really sure that I always am.

But I am, as with all things in my life right now, working on it.

Darth Sardonic


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