I’m going to keep this concise, as I’ve noticed a direct correlation between the amount of words I/you write and how many hits my/our blog receives. In the case of last Friday (the most visited day since Launch Day October 12th 2010), you posted a video and I posted a shallow, succinct response. This resulted in a quadrupling of site traffic. Whatever that statistic reveals about our audience is immaterial. What is material is the lamp-in-the-face-bad-cop-bad-cop-no-soda-self-interrogation about the quality of my writing demonstrated here. I wish I could delve more into this subject, but I’ve already overstayed my welcome. Please excuse the ensuing overstaying. Feel free to stop reading here or here or here.
Obviously, my consciousness is an amalgam of three distinct personalities:
1. Trent Lane from Daria
3. and Conan O’Brien
The great tragedy of my adult life was when I my Late Night with Conan O’Brien tickets were nullified by the Writer’s Strike. During the gestative years of my self, Conan proved himself to be modern society’s truest exemplar of the Kierkegaardian Knight of Faith. Not only did he know Max Weinberg, but he accidentally founded the now-defunct hornymanatee.com. Also, masturbating bear. He was the reason I wrote my ill-fated standup routine. I’ll email you some of the jokes. Anyway, I’m watching his new show on TBS for the first time tonight. I need to sleep on my feelings, to go fetal atop the high-thread-count sheets of my emotions, to parse if it holds up, if it earns the right to preempt the deplorable, rancorous, lobotomizing George Lopez.
I’ll let you know.
X’s and O’s,