Blog Prologue

After considerable prodding from the local cognoscenti, I too have joined the innumerable ranks of the unread blogger. Having finally succumbed to this prevailing mode of self-expression (lest it be self-indulgent narcissism), I feel it necessary to say a few words about the content you may happen upon herein. I don’t intend these sporadic scrawlings to be more than a haphazard exegesis on daily instances I encounter – call it an attempt to catalogue my observances: like skeletal photography.

Yes, I could save you, the reader, the time-burning burden and opt to write in a journal or little-girl diary, but the whole ordeal seems apallingly Anne Frank-y or Bridget Jones-y in nature, if not sadly onanistic (you’ll have to look that one up). But more importantly, simply writing to one’s self is devoid of the motivation required to put forth the noble effort (unless, of course, you’re hopelessly misunderstood or gothic in nature). But when it comes to blogging…if I can touch the heart of just one soul, or provide a glimmer of hope to just one starving child with an Ethernet connection, why, that’s all the impetus I need to carry on, regardless of the exertion and anguish involved.

France’s resident optimist, Jean-Paul Sartre, once noted, “I think there is a big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth because you’re always looking for something.” This much is true, and there’s an even stronger impulse to elaborate upon the banality of one’s daily existence if it’s laid bare before the discerning and jaded public eye. That said, I’ll indeed make a valiant effort to avoid any overt tall tales or fabrications (unless, like on-screen nudity, it's necessary to the storyline and tastefully rendered). Taking certain artistic liberties is a habit of mine, but I have no problem reserving that tendency for my other creative outlets – such as my weekly correspondences to Jefferson, a convicted murderer pen pal I’ve got up in Sing Sing (he's under the impression that I bench 340lbs, and have a dimpled chin, and somehow have Lou Diamond Phillips for a cabana boy.). The S.O.B. just loves a good yarn. That and his L. Ron Hubbard literature.

If you're still with me, you should also be forewarned that it’s unlikely I’ll stumble upon any breaking news, divine illuminations, or cosmic profundities over the span of these chronicles (but I’ll surely parlay them if so). No, it’s more likely that I’ll come across something such as a gasoline puddle in a parking lot and expound upon the intrinsic beauty of its rainbow tint or some such nonsense (much to the delight of any of you ten-gallon-hatted-oil-tycoons, and/or gays, leprechauns, Hawaiians, or Noah’s Ark aficionados out there). Because, you see, these scarcely-read rhetorical exposés aim to encompass the full specrtrum of our nation's divergent socio-economic parameters. This wide berth is made possible due to the fact that I’ve not been commissioned by any insidious entities, intelligentsia, marketers, or Spanish queens. This is an independent endeavor free of any hidden agendas. So whether you’re a blue-blooded neocon or just a run-of-the-mill commie pinko queer, I hope you find this literary embarkation to be as I intend: just an unbiased, light-hearted romp for the whole family - like Uno; or bumperboats. But I digress...