Give Me My Life; What Was It?
You know, amazing as it may seem, we are coming up pretty quick here on the second anniversary of Doob LaVey. WOW! Can you believe it? That's a long time. The only other thing I've ever stuck with for two years is "not dying" and I guess I've gotten pretty good at that, as I've been doing it for over 33 years now (It's gonna take awhile for Doob LaVey to catch up to that one!;).
The Doob LaVey of today is not the Doob LaVey of yesterday. Nor is it the Doob LaVey I set out to create. Almost immediately, it took on a life of its' own, growing and evolving from a somewhat
cohesive narrative with the occasional digression, into the sporadically updated series of random tangents that you see before you now.
What I originally envisioned was for Doob LaVey to be my story. My tale as I tromped and stomped my way from here to my death bed. Every ounce of love and laughter was to be captured here; Every heartbreak and horror preserved here, in my own words.
Which, now that I'm thinking about it, sounds an awful lot like every other blog ever. The difference being that I'm almost as good a writer as I am an architect, and I am a way better architect than any other blogger will ever hope to be. Uh... LOL?
Long ago it became clear to me that it was far too late to try to get my blog back on track. So I had to do the next best thing. Thus began work on my autobiography. Before you ask, no, it's not finished yet, and no, I wouldn't look for it in bookstores any earlier than next year. But it has begun! Oh my, how it has begun.
As a little treat for my regular readers, I've decided to post portions of my autobiography here for both of you to enjoy. Without further ado, I present to you the foreword from "Give Me My Life; What Was It?".
Okay, maybe one little "ado" first. Traditionally, the foreword is written by a person other than the author. You know, a friend, a colleague, a worthy adversary, and the like (which need not be specified). For this solemn duty, I chose my old chum, Darren Pisni. Even though I haven't seen or spoken to Darren in decades, our history together made him the perfect match for this kind of assignment. One private investigators' fee of $435.72 later, I was reunited with this long lost childhood friend by telephone.
Now, I may or may not have mentioned Darren to you before. Either way, he was the bloke who, as an infant, mistook "Dran-O" for a beverage, and imbibed heavily. Ever after, the resulting burns and damage rendered his speech into something more akin to a garbled mess of consonants. So I hope you understand me when I say I meant to be as brief on the phone as possible. As I hung up, I regarded the twenty two minutes as a sacrifice for the greater good, as he had agreed to write the foreword, as I'd hoped.
Thusly freed from worry, I sat down to work, and churned out good material at a steady rate for almost two weeks, until the postman delivered a parcel to my doorstep. As I had expected, it proved to be the foreword Darren had written. Excited to learn all the kind and wonderful things he had said, I eagerly tore open the package so I could have a look at the manuscript.
As I mentioned, due to the quality of Darren's deductive abilities, he had blessed him with a severe speech impediment. In no way had it ever affected his reading or comprehension. Yet, as I perused the manuscript, I found that he'd transcribed the whole thing in his personal brand of Scooby talk. I dialed him up immediately.
"What the fuck, Darren." I said. "What is this shit?"
"Rev repuno kak renar gorda." he replied, feigning suprise.
"You know what I'm talking about. Now explain yourself!"
"Keppa seruba kon tili. Moki slaa. krey peti krey."
There's only so much abuse that one man can take, and I hung up on him. I had more important things to worry about; Like where was I going to find someone to write this thing?
Even then I knew who it would end up being. The best man for the job was the one I always turn to, when I want a job done right. Me.
So, with all my ado's now exhausted, I present to you... this.
GIVE ME MY LIFE; WHAT WAS IT?
An Autobiography
by
Jamie S. Luxton III
Foreword
by
Jamie S. Luxton III
Sometimes a man just has to drink alone. Especially when he's forced to delve into the deepest and darkest of places within his own mind; Places he'd hoped to never venture again. However, these things must sometimes be done, even if only for the sake of professionalism. I, as a professional autobiographer, would be remiss in my duty, were I to recollect for you only the happier moments of my life. That would be only one half of one story; only one half of one life (and the shorter half at that).
Try as I might, I cannot forget my responsibility to my readers, who have either dished out an assload of cash for this volume, or else risked incarceration by stealing it (it'll make more sense after it's published). Whichever way it was for you, dear reader, brace yourself. Prepare yourself for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
So help me God.
Off to a pretty good start, aren't we? Next time, I'll let you all have a gander at chapter one. Should be a hoot.
The Doob LaVey of today is not the Doob LaVey of yesterday. Nor is it the Doob LaVey I set out to create. Almost immediately, it took on a life of its' own, growing and evolving from a somewhat
cohesive narrative with the occasional digression, into the sporadically updated series of random tangents that you see before you now.
What I originally envisioned was for Doob LaVey to be my story. My tale as I tromped and stomped my way from here to my death bed. Every ounce of love and laughter was to be captured here; Every heartbreak and horror preserved here, in my own words.
Which, now that I'm thinking about it, sounds an awful lot like every other blog ever. The difference being that I'm almost as good a writer as I am an architect, and I am a way better architect than any other blogger will ever hope to be. Uh... LOL?
Long ago it became clear to me that it was far too late to try to get my blog back on track. So I had to do the next best thing. Thus began work on my autobiography. Before you ask, no, it's not finished yet, and no, I wouldn't look for it in bookstores any earlier than next year. But it has begun! Oh my, how it has begun.
As a little treat for my regular readers, I've decided to post portions of my autobiography here for both of you to enjoy. Without further ado, I present to you the foreword from "Give Me My Life; What Was It?".
Okay, maybe one little "ado" first. Traditionally, the foreword is written by a person other than the author. You know, a friend, a colleague, a worthy adversary, and the like (which need not be specified). For this solemn duty, I chose my old chum, Darren Pisni. Even though I haven't seen or spoken to Darren in decades, our history together made him the perfect match for this kind of assignment. One private investigators' fee of $435.72 later, I was reunited with this long lost childhood friend by telephone.
Now, I may or may not have mentioned Darren to you before. Either way, he was the bloke who, as an infant, mistook "Dran-O" for a beverage, and imbibed heavily. Ever after, the resulting burns and damage rendered his speech into something more akin to a garbled mess of consonants. So I hope you understand me when I say I meant to be as brief on the phone as possible. As I hung up, I regarded the twenty two minutes as a sacrifice for the greater good, as he had agreed to write the foreword, as I'd hoped.
Thusly freed from worry, I sat down to work, and churned out good material at a steady rate for almost two weeks, until the postman delivered a parcel to my doorstep. As I had expected, it proved to be the foreword Darren had written. Excited to learn all the kind and wonderful things he had said, I eagerly tore open the package so I could have a look at the manuscript.
As I mentioned, due to the quality of Darren's deductive abilities, he had blessed him with a severe speech impediment. In no way had it ever affected his reading or comprehension. Yet, as I perused the manuscript, I found that he'd transcribed the whole thing in his personal brand of Scooby talk. I dialed him up immediately.
"What the fuck, Darren." I said. "What is this shit?"
"Rev repuno kak renar gorda." he replied, feigning suprise.
"You know what I'm talking about. Now explain yourself!"
"Keppa seruba kon tili. Moki slaa. krey peti krey."
There's only so much abuse that one man can take, and I hung up on him. I had more important things to worry about; Like where was I going to find someone to write this thing?
Even then I knew who it would end up being. The best man for the job was the one I always turn to, when I want a job done right. Me.
So, with all my ado's now exhausted, I present to you... this.
GIVE ME MY LIFE; WHAT WAS IT?
An Autobiography
by
Jamie S. Luxton III
Foreword
by
Jamie S. Luxton III
Sometimes a man just has to drink alone. Especially when he's forced to delve into the deepest and darkest of places within his own mind; Places he'd hoped to never venture again. However, these things must sometimes be done, even if only for the sake of professionalism. I, as a professional autobiographer, would be remiss in my duty, were I to recollect for you only the happier moments of my life. That would be only one half of one story; only one half of one life (and the shorter half at that).
Try as I might, I cannot forget my responsibility to my readers, who have either dished out an assload of cash for this volume, or else risked incarceration by stealing it (it'll make more sense after it's published). Whichever way it was for you, dear reader, brace yourself. Prepare yourself for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
So help me God.
Off to a pretty good start, aren't we? Next time, I'll let you all have a gander at chapter one. Should be a hoot.
posted by Jamie S. Luxton III | 10:05 AM
9 Comments:
It's about freakin' time Luxton! You promised me an autographed copy remember?
And why couldn't I write your freakin' forward huh?
I wish I could write an intro to your book, Luxton. It would go something like this:
A flash.
Then another.
Another.
And then I saw him.
He was dressed as I learned he always was; casual, yet hip. Sloppy, yet discreet.
Slightly taller than average, he strode through the lobby with a brown martini in his left hand and two cigarettes in his right. One was lit, and the other would be lit with the stub of the first. He wasted no movements.
The flashbulbs continued, casting a strobing aura about him. My pupils twitched along in the silent groove.
Then a cry rose from the crowd, barricaded from stepping to close too him. The mother of one of his victims, no doubt. The cry was joined by another.
Then another.
Another.
Until the entire crowd erupted like a grenade, spewing their venom, their hatred. How could such a man exist? What god would dare?
I found myself yelling along with them, the emotion overwhelming me. Tears streaming unnoticed down my cheeks.
That was the first day I met Jamie Luxton. I watched him walk by that day and prayed for justice to wash away the cocky grin, but he continued to live another day.
Then another.
Another.
Pardon my spelling as I wipe away these vision blurring tears of mirth! Oh dear, I'd forgotten about that day. Looks like chapter 6 just wrote itself!
The autobiography won't be out til next year? *sigh* I suppose I'll have to lie in wait next to your dumpster so I can get new (albeit unworthy, stained and newly-pungent) pages of the manuscript.
hahahah you should have gotten Eric McNaughten to write your forward.....hey that sorta rhymes.
where the fuck is stringfellow hawk?
airwolf is such a bitchin' machine it writes its' own autobiography while taking out an entire convoy of duece and a halfs. Or would that be halves? I'm questioning my own judgement for the first time... It doesn't feel good.
You are so screwed up.....poor thing.
Where do you want to be ten years from now??????? Doing the same stupid schtick?????
I don't know who the fuck you are, Parker, but good point! I like you.
Post a Comment
<< Home