Life on the San Diego River

Mark Twain is a god. Or a demigod, anyway, and if you haven’t read his Life on the Mississippi River (and I imagine that anyone who takes time to read internet blogs must love reading and therefore be a well-read person) you need to do so immediately (at least the first half), before you consider reading anything else. If you have, you may appreciate my allusion to it, combined with the humor in its comparison to our own mighty, mighty San Diego River (hint: this is a joke—it’s funny because our river isn’t mighty. And by “isn’t mighty,” I mean that at the point where it passes thirty yards from the front door of my apartment it must be a solid twelve feet wide, and hardly deep enough to get your ankles wet… also, it’s contained by a construction of concrete banks. I saw a duck in there once.) I’ve long imagined that I would call my autobiography Life on the San Diego River out of admiration for that titanic American writer and out of a juvenile need to make myself laugh. Alternately, I’ve considered calling it, The Last Generation of American Smokers, but this option is problematic. We may not be, in fact, the last generation of American smokers. Also, we quit smoking. Months ago.

I never wanted to be a blogger (this is me distancing myself from my own actions so that you are left without ammunition to judge me). I never liked blogs. I don’t tend to like the kind of person who must be writing most blogs. But I’ve recently encountered more than one good friend who enjoys the practice, and I think I’ll give it a go.

I’m not here to share my innermost feelings (actually, I have no innermost feelings. I’m a very shallow person, really). I’m not here to entertain you, necessarily. I’m not here to vent… necessarily. I am here to force myself to write down some of the stories that I am fond of telling. Some of them will be worth reading, if I can do them justice. I won’t lie to you, I promise. I won’t misrepresent any of the players, either. I won’t write morals onto the ends (I’m not fond of stories that have morals—I hardly like conclusions). I will attempt to be true to my own voice (if you know me, it shouldn’t be hard to imagine me rambling on; if you don’t know me, then picture a half-drunk bearded guy with a touch of ADD talking too fast and getting excited long before he gets to any punchlines).

If anything I say causes you to question my perspectives, reference this:

I’m college-educated male born in the mid-1980’s living in the dark depths of San Diego. I’m an atheist of sorts, and I’m a humanist rather than a patriot. I don’t believe in hurting people. I have good intentions, most of the time, but I lack ambition. I like good beer, good music, and good company.