Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Some days it's easier to be a blogger than others. There are days when very nearly nothing is happening, so you sit there in front of your computer staring at the blank screen and blinking cursor, feeling nauseous and constricted and sweating blood. Sure, you can take the male chastity belt and solve most of those problems, but it doesn't make the words come any easier.
On other days topics fall right out of the sky and land in your lap with a big wet slap. Maybe it's your birthday or there's a pre-election debate scheduled that night or you read an article about cuddle-parties or you save a little girl from being run over in a parking lot or you get kidnapped by aliens again or you finish reading an 800 page work of 19th century Russian literature... those are the magical days, when the blogposts write themselves and all you need do, as a pseud0-essayist humor blogger, is provide a pretentious allusion or reference to German philosophy here or a dick joke there and whammo! You're back on eBay finding the last pieces for your complete set of knit superhero-themed office-supply cozies in no time.
(By the way, if anyone has or knows of a Captain America stapler cozy for sale, I'd appreciate an e-mail. Crochet or macramé will do in a pinch, but I prefer knitted. Thanks.)
There is a third type of blogger-day and that is a day like today when there is simply too much happening. As a blogger you have to make a strong editorial decision as to which way to go, keeping in mind--always always, first and foremost--which story is most amenable to Schopenhauer references and penis-themed punning.
Today is just that type of a day. Which way to go? The revelation of Deep Throat or Paris Hilton's engagement to a guy who has the same first name as her?
I know it seems obvious, any story involving the name "Deep Throat" is right in my wheel-house, but I don't know, it just seems so... like I said, obvious. The bluntness of the name "Deep Throat" sort of undercuts any attempt to make lascivious and juvenile jokes about the whole thing. Woodward and Bernstein have kind of ruined it for me already. A good Hal Holbrook reference wouldn't go amiss, but just everyone is doing that, so I can't. Also, I just dropped Jason Robards' name in a blogpost a few days ago, so I can't go back to that well too soon.
The Paris Hilton thing, well, that sets up for me almost perfectly since we know how much Pops loves him some tabloid celebrity. And marrying someone with the same name as you, well, that's a special type of narcissism the scale has not been invented yet to measure. But you know, speaking of over-visited wells, I don't know that I have the energy to go back to the Paris Hilton matrix of pop-culture self-immolation thoughts and ideas again. We already know what beats I'd have to hit, the sex tape, that little dog, the cocaine-stupidity, all wrapped up with me comically referring to something as "hott". Does anyone want that? Nah, me neither.
In a way, I guess you could say I'm like a reporter trying to figure out which story to follow. I think I know now how Woodward and Bernstein felt in '71 or '72 when they were trying to decide whether to follow this boring, boring Washington hotel break-in story or cover something more meaningful like Jacqueline Kennedy or Burton & Taylor or (apparently) watching a bunch of tacky porn about women with clitorises (clitori?) in the backs of their throats. Say what you want about Woodward and Bernstein, but they never had to worry about where to put the dick jokes.
Luckily for ole Pops though, this isn't 1971, this is 2005 and blogging sure as fuck ain't newspaper reporting. There's no researching or phone-calling or fact-ing of any kind going on here. We are all blessed to be living in the age we live in now, and not just because of robot vacuums. Unlike Woodward and Bernstein, I--all of us--have a cop-out option: meta-blogging about how hard it is to decide what to blog about.
Free free free as a bird. Lolly lolly lolly.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 7.3