A Bone to Pick with Reality.

Everyone's writing books these days.  I credit James Altucher (@jaltucher) with getting me off the fence, but having a son really helped get over the hump, too.  The problem has always been subject matter.  You see, no one really gives a fuck about what anyone else has done.  There's always a schadenfreude or smug "I could do that" attitude that goes into reading autobiographies.  For me anyway.  And maybe that's the problem.  To my thinking the truest virtue of all is follow-through, and when a car ride with Buttercup turned into a conversation about some friend of her parents dying, it occurred to me that I simply wanted to be remembered as a philosopher - and philosophers write philosophy.

Here's the opening paragraph of Sur le Pontification:  Shit I Learned the Hard Way for Ego and Id:

First and most importantly, branding yourself hurts like a motherfucker, for a protracted period of time.  We're not talking tattoo here.  I did make it through the first week.  And the second.  But she found out today, and that was not ideal - and there's the rub.

She asked me what I would tell my son, as if he'd ever have occasion to see the upper third of the outside of my thigh.  I'd tell him it hurt like a motherfucker, just like I told you.  But beyond that, is it any of his fucking business what I had done or why?  Libertarian isn't a convenience.  Individual will and desire aren't to be labeled.  This is why Waffler-in-Chief Obama's statement on gay marriage was even hollower than it sounded.

The true fact is that your rights end at my nose.

Remember that.

book's coming this fall, get excited.