As Bryan already mentioned, the weather in the Rockies is only moderately winter-ish, right now. I'm back in Colorado for the holidays and, even after leaving the icebox that is Chicago, am somewhat disappointed that the only thing remotely white about this Christmas was...well, Colorado. But, even though diversity limps, and the fact that we didn't have any cloud dandruff to set the mood, it's good to be home for a bit. I've missed the dry air...the world's best micro-breweries...the hundreds of ramshackle pharmacies where it's completely legal to buy an ounce of Northern Lights.
So, as is fitting for the recent holiday, I celebrated in biblical fashion, by drinking a blinding amount of vino and giving asexual birth to a child who will hopefully form a devout, and lucrative, religious following in the future. Or, at very least, I'd like to sell him for enough to cover my credit card interest for 2011. This, of course, means that I've started writing a new novel manuscript. It's going to be one part Science-Fiction, one part bullshit, and two parts frothing lunacy. And, no, it's not Ann Coulter's biography (Though I hear Hell's literary agent is making serious headway on that deal with Random).
Here's hoping that my newest progeny turns out to have better genes that his three younger siblings, and at least be as good-looking in the eyes of editors as his half-brother (written with co-author Bryan (and Jack Daniels)). Two eyes, ten toes, six figures. Is that too much to ask for? I don't think so. It's about time, right? Because, I for one, am sick and tired of feeling like that guy at the family reunion who's always drunkenly trying to excuse the dismal status of his delinquent offspring. No, I want my kid to lounge on the top of a bestseller list, bathing in champagne and groupies, not tossing salad for cigarettes, serving life in San Quentin. Who the hell would want to slap that bumper sticker on the back of his car? My Kid Is Prison Bitch of the Year at Canon City Pen! So, what's a father to do in order to ensure his child doesn't wind up serving the function of a prisonwide bidet? If I knew the answer, I'd be a rich man. And my first kids would need much less Listerine.
I have hope for this novel. I really do. That means it's time to crack open a Fat Tire, crank up the Led Zeppelin, and beat my keyboard like it owes me money.
Music: Sick Puppies
Beer: Fat Tire