At some point, we got off track. And it’s all my fault (or so I’ve oft been told). But leave it to the methodical charms of my editor to spare me from the embarrassment of a literary derailing. When this column began it did so without introduction. And my Twitter (@MAKINGhisSTORY)
profiles are littered with either hyperbole, irreverence or a maybe lil’ bit of both. I thought my ADD, OCD and other D’s would quite naturally lend to the thrill of the circus. And because it was very well received, I just assumed we would all follow along together and get to know each other along the way. But I admit to not seeing the value of that “getting to know you” period to mention that I am a clinical insomniac, reluctant Mensan, divorced single-father, ellipsis over-usin’…serial apostrophe abusin’, Vagina Whisperer with a penchant for the affectionately uninhibited—unless it was in context—to actual text. Still, a thousand scattered thoughts and themes and many thousands of edits later, it feels like I’m trying to find myself in the funhouse and none of the reflections look quite like me. So today I’m getting back to the basics…and you—we get to go back to where it all began.
Once upon a time, in a land close, close by…I had a girlfriend who watched Sex and the City. Come to think of it, “watched” might be an understatement, she practically inhaled it into her bloodstream with her eyes. To her every episode was a Lay’s potato chip, and she could never watch just once. So much so that I don’t ever recall her watching anything else (though I’m sure did now and again). I remember going to see her in anticipation of a sex marathon and running, head-last, into a SATC marathon instead. So I did the only thing one would think to do given the situation. I used my imagination. Eventually though, I got beyond fantasizing about liberating Kristen Davis (Charlotte) with a daily supply of my organic Vitamin O and actually watched the show. T’was far from the favorite HBO offering but I liked the writing well-enough for it to earn a spot on my very short “TV to watch” list. Though as the protagonist, Carrie was mostly a bore to me beyond the five-inch heels and five-minute monologues, she was expertly anchored in the foreground as a colorful relationship columnist—coupled with the based-on-a-true-story subtext—that made SATC creative genius and an intriguing prompt.
So it was from this column/book/show, which explicitly chronicled both sex and a city, that The E-Male Chronicles was originally conceived. An updated, relocated and masculated version of how SATC would read from a carmel-skinned, thirty-something man’s vantage point was envisioned—where cojones trump Manolos and Samatha’s highly celebrated high sex-drive is comparatively pedestrian or below average. Upon further research of Candace Bushnell, the author who figuratively and literally wrote the book on Carrie Bradshaw, my initials (and syllables) were matched to a suitable pseudonym and I started painting anecdotes with a keyboard. But my uncomplicated masculine idealism often defies convention and challenges tenets of the status quo. For that reason, The E-Male Chronicles was never intended to be mistaken for an advice column, even though at times it may read like one. I share satirical thoughts, opinions and experiences for the benefit of your entertainment and humor. While most of what is written is born of true and present thoughts and/or emotions, anything I say comes with a strict caveat [*results may vary or *contains nuts]. So if you’re presently trying to gauge, salvage or save a relationship you’re more than welcome to e-mail
me privately and I will put on a serious hat. But if you’re simply looking for a literary vehicle to take on a mental getaway from a monotonous Monday, then the simple pleasure of reading in this space every week should do the trick (or my daily blog—as soon as I get back to that).