I’m not sure how it has happened, but this blog turns the grand old age of one today. I am shaking my head and making a noise that sounds something like “flububublblbba” as I ponder the enormity of that statement. One year old. Older than boxed wine. Older than Jason Giambi’s pituitary tumor. Dudes, I am older than Julia Roberts’ twin babies.

It’s been a crazy year, a year of false promises and dashed dreams. But it’s also been a year of increased restraint. For instance, I did not once eat a pear in the past year. I threw no baked ziti down my expectant piehole. And I only said the word “poopy” one time — right here in this sentence. (Gotta fill the quota.)

When I started this thing on December 3, 2003, I thought I would be bored to death with it by February 2004. And I was entirely correct. Yet I soldiered on. Why? Because I wanted to? Hell no! Because women are throwing themselves all over my white, bony, Michigan-bred carcass? Nope. I kept on going because somebody told me that the last blogger standing wins a prize. If that’s true, I hope it’s a pony!

I’d like to use this special occasion to inform you of something unexpected and nice that happened to me recently. I sold a book to Simon & Schuster. It’s about my life-long obsession with music, and in particular indie rock. (Yeah, I know — sounds pretty crappy to me, too.) Currently the title is “Gold Soundz,” but I’m looking to snazz that shit up. Big time. So “Title TK.” My editor is all fancy, with a corner office in the same building where Meg Parsont used to sit and receive phone calls and flowers from David Letterman. The book will come out sometime in 2006, if I don’t die from ziti-withdrawal before then. This paragraph makes me weep in shame because it seems like I’m bragging, when in reality I want to crawl into my closet, put a blanket over my head, and hide until everyone just goes away.


I have a cold.