The Roving Retorter welcomes you!
I’m here because I lead a pretty effortlessly colorful life. It’s always seemed just a little more fanciful and farcical than the daily lives of most people I know. What’s meant to be a 10-minute round trip to my neighborhood grocery store for avocados, cream-cheese cake frosting, and paper towels too often morphs into a three-ring, neo-Shakespearean-esque escapade. Someone once referred to me as a lightning rod for the strange and disenfranchised, and I don’t think there’s any better way to put it. I’m full of fodder. Fodder which then triggers thoughts and threads in my head that I like to think of as a form of relatable social critique. And I gotta jot this stuff down. I gotta put this shit in writing.
The Roving Retorter is a little tech-age journal of my journey. One that will also conveniently allow me to kill multiple birds with one stone, as the public nature of this venue can serve as a one-stop shop for the relaying of the madcap high jinks and headaches that have recently unfolded in my life and times, instead of having to constantly repeat myself (per back-to-back incident) to each of my friends and loved ones.
In addition to the from-the-trenches reportage, I’m basically going to be writing and ranting about whatever I want – observations, irritations, ideas, ideals. It will all depend on my mood at the time. But this is not meant to be a tell-all forum – I’ll be very proud and choosy about how much of my personal life I’ll publicly reveal. This is just one of my written records, and I hope it turns out to be a good one. Because when I’m in my 90’s (and according to a psychic named Ava, I one day will be – she took one long look at my Nile River of a life line and pronounced that I’m going to make it to at least 100), I want to go back and read through all of this to jog my memory about what a trip it’s all been. I don’t know what’s finally going to kill me once I do reach the 100-year mark – but I like to picture myself sitting in a well-padded rocking chair (with a mug of coffee or a glass of wine at my side) with a distinguished web of deep-set, untampered-with wrinkles, a white-speckled afro, and my signature laser-steel eyes still at least somewhat intact. When I take my last breath, I want to be completely doubled-over and wheezing with laughter, after having just read a passage from a chronicle such as this.
So anyways, thanks for stopping by. I hope you check back in sometime real soon.
P.S. I was just re-reading a recent e-mail from my local wine shop (I’m on their list). In honor of Black History Month, they’ll be putting together a tasting hosted by a “winemaker of color.” For the rest of this month (and every February hereafter), I want to be referred to as both a blogger of color and a retorter of color (especially the latter).
Two Years of Wedded Bliss . . .
1 day ago