Well! Well. All right. So.

Right now, I am doing two things. One of them is that I am listening to “Entre Dos Aguas” by Paco de Lucía. You can listen to that track right here while you read, if you want to. The second thing is that I am beginning this blog. So here we go.

I am Conor Patrick. I write stories. It’s important, they say, for you and I to get to be able to talk to one another. For the moment, let’s ignore them, because you know that I know that you know that neither of us cares yet where I came from or why I’m doing this. (That will come later). For the moment, let’s  cut to it:

If you want to read a story I have written, you can find a couple of them behind curtain #1 and curtain #2. They are “Goodbye Crocodile” and “Three Tigers”, respectively. Two very different stories. If one or the other  gets you going, (or both, forbid), you can buy GOODBYE CROCODILE, twelve stories by yours truly, for less than the cost of a pack of smokes. It is available in paperback right over here. If you’re the kind who likes the ebook whatsits, I got you covered there too: click for Amazon US or its UK compadre. The electronic version is cheaper, if you’re wondering. I would like it very much if you would give them a try.

Plug over. Moving on.

I am new to this. I do not understand–and therefore I fear–blogging, tweeting, snap-chattering, tumbling, and other forms of nuevo-talk-tech that simultaneously cultivates and strangles communication on a global scale.*  This is an attempt at understanding. To find the draw. I neither read blogs nor write them. Or I didn’t, until today. But if I am going to do this then I should embrace wholly the hog; by the time you read this there will be twitter and facebook and goodreads buttons somewhere around here. Click them if it pleases you. Also: if you have a blog I should read, then I will read it. Spare me the hunt and link it below in the comments.

A very little about me: I used to be into arguing about politics and arguing about the environment and arguing about lots of things like wars and guns and schools and which flavo(u)r Ben and Jerry’s is Emperor of Ice Cream, but these days I’ve learned to embrace modern life a little bit, and now I like to see what types of food I can ingest and how many hours of House of Cards I can watch in a row. I am still prone to iced cream-related discourse but otherwise I try to keep my ire in a jar under the kitchen counter. I enjoy particularly good books and sometimes great films and sometimes bad television. I particularly love bad food–anything which we are supposed to feel guilty for eating, or should not as adults allow ourselves to enjoy, is of interest, e.g. a peanut butter, Nutella, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup sandwiches. In this blog I will not post about television but I may post about bad food. I have a vision of a chili-cheese hotdog post brought to bear not long from today. I will certainly post about stories and books and writers, but fortunately not exclusively so.

This blog is my Voyager 1. It is made to do one job, which is to provide a forum in which ye all can communicate with/to/at me about items which I will express electronically here and in which we share a mutual interest. It is exactly like Voyager 1, except in the many ways it is not like Voyager 1, such as the fact that I am not NASA, and this blog is not a space probe which has now left our solar system, and it was free instead of $250,000,000. So, it’s almost nothing like Voyager 1, except insofar as I am lobbing it out there to see where it goes, out past the heliopause, (the metaphorical one, y’dig), to see where we end up.

So that’s it. Comment below and let me know your favo(u)rite food/book indulgence. Or other indulgence. I want to know what makes you feel good and guilty. If there’s a blog you like, don’t forget to let me know about it.

Stick around, won’t you? You don’t want to miss the chili-dog thing.

-C

Current Location: Muzambique, Algeristico.

Currently Reading: Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. (Almost, thank Christo, finished. I will be talking about it when that blessed day hath arrived.)

 

 

*Which is to say: we are able to tweetursnap with our lover or sister or in-law on faceblast, but at what cost? This cost: your significant other, who is sitting there trying his damndest to get you to watch The Hunt for Red October, has to hassle and cajole you into witnessing what is undoubtedly Alec Baldwin’s tour-de-force performance when he shouldn’t even have to because Sean Connery was a traitor to Mutha Russia all along and that is some compelling narrative, man, but you’re just sitting there glaze-eyed in the blue light of your stupid phone.

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