This blog is not a personal diary or therapeutic inner-monologue.
The world and people around me are far more intriguing and worthy of perlustration.
However, as this little record of those amazing Others gains quiet momentum, I receive more and more inquiries as to the source of my name, Ravedogg.
Yes, to me, it truly is my name, bestowed with humor and oft-repeated in friendship, the endearment magnified by its decade-long endurance.
You won't find me at Burning Man or any illegal warehouse parties downtown.
And if you ever catch me in fluffy neon-colored vests, big hats, and oversized plastic jewelry, you have my permission to perform a mercy killing.
No... Here's where I began:
One fall evening on a college campus along California's south coast, a heavy metal enthusiast found herself blessed with an empty dorm room.
The Gates of Hell had made another trip home for the weekend, and I was flying high on supreme command of the stereo.
[The Gates involve repeated post-shower, full-frontal encounters with lots of Victoria's Secret body lotion... Please don't ask me to relive that in detail.]
I opened a window, flipped on the blacklights, and cranked Pantera up to 'ear bleed'.
Little did I know, down on the sidewalk leading into the building, stood a girl who would become a life-altering inspiration and dear friend.
She looked up at the window and said, "A real Ravedogg must live there."
And once you've piqued her curiosity - it's on.
So there you have it. One seemingly mundane moment setting a lifetime precedent, creating a new identity.
Thank you, Hezzah, for taking the first step in turning a sow's ear into a black leather purse... with lots of surly silver studs.
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