A Forced Confession

As seemingly provocative yet somehow lame and familiar in a dirty way as "A Forced Confession" is as a title, I promise that this blog is not about an infamous child abuse case, a child-abusing Catholic Bishop, or a Soviet-era potboiler (whatever that may be) about child abuse. In fact, I promise never to mention children again if I can at all help it because like a dancer in an upscale strip club on karaoke night, they should be seen, not heard. I also promise not to continue with that analogy because it is dangerous, maybe criminal, to equate kids with strippers. I should have used dogs in my example except they are awful at karaoke.

Which brings me to my "Forced Confession": I like karaoke.

Actually, that wasn't it at all and instead it is this: although I have written for publications, electronic and printed, in the past I have never written a blog.

So although I imagine my blog to be something like a cross between "The Onion", "EOnline", and "The Drudge Report" I must realize the limitations of my technical ability and beg patience from anyone unlucky enough to read what I have to say about movies, music, politics, love, and gluttony (which are really all the same thing if you think about it).

I refuse to say something like "This blog is a snapshot of life as I see it" because I just ate and I prefer that my intestines, not my carpet, receive the benefit of my efforts to obtain nutrition. This blog is life as I wish to see it, not actually what I observe. That I will make comments on the ridiculous and real (especially in movies) is simply a way of getting to my point on how I would rule the world if given the keys to the global car of humanity.

I promise to mix metaphor until it's a frozen margarita of virtue, humor, and good old-fashioned horse-sense rolled into one erudite buffet for the soul.

I cannot promise, however, that any of it will be worth being seen... unlike a karaoke-singing child dog-stripper in a Soviet-era pot boiler, whatever that may be.

Roark