I tried to post this once before, but it got away from me. The preface that I tried to write, that is. So I’m trying again to write this preface which laments a common scenario I run into about town. The one where people come up and talk about this site in ways that make it clear to me that they cannot and do not perceive a difference between JCO the dad and JCO the writer.
I obviously understand why. The world sees me as a dad blogger, and, of course I also get why that’s the case. Even so, I see myself as so much more. (Which is probably why I started a profane, edgy, irreverent sports site that, in just six months, is already drawing far greater numbers than this site ever has — even when I posted here all the time here. Oddly, none of the readers over there have EVER come up to me and said “You must be the best sports fan.”)
Anyway, the piece I wrote about Mindy McCready for Babble yesterday is one that was authored by the writer, not the dad. And while I know most of you appreciate the difference between the two, and, in fact, maybe even visit me from time to time because of that appreciation, I guess I just wanted to make it abundantly clear because there was something about this Mindy McCready piece, about our encounter and about her suicide that’s haunting me. Which is why this piece is one that’ll stay with me for quite sometime, just like the era of my life it conjured up.
It’s about a night in my late 20s when some friends and I got absolutely *hammered* with Mindy. It’s kinda sad. Kinda dark. But also kinda beautiful. At least I think so. Very rambly and lyrical, so it may not be for everyone, but if you feel it might be for you, I hope you’ll read it by clicking HERE.
And sorry for the rant.