Sunday, January 29, 2006
I Apologize For What Follows
I've got some existentially terrifying news for everyone. It was sort of destined to happen eventually, but still I was able to delude myself by assuming it would never happen to me.
We established on Friday that I will, on occasion, engage in conversation with myself. Usually it's an act of consolation and calming as I--yet again!--talk myself out of storming a Krispy Kreme with a high-powered rifle, taking hostages and then doing us all in in a fantastic conflagration of flames, cooking fat and sugar glaze.
That scenario is also inevitable, but that's not the one I'm talking about tonight. What I'm talking about is how over the weekend, I finally had the conversation with myself about blogging and the frequency with which I participate. My self-conversation went sort of like this:
ME: What the fuck are you doing this for again?
There was this long, awkward pause. I tried to distract myself by making chit-chat about the weather and the best way to bar the exits of a Krispy Kreme shop all by myself, but eventually the answer was clear: there was no answer.
I should warn people that the rest of this post is all inward-looking Pops self-absorption. If you've recently eaten, I suggest you turn away now.
I'm not even sure how the suicidal six-days-per-week schedule got started. The only thing I can think of is that someone who really doesn't like me and has access to ancient Native American animal shaman hypno-magic capable of both forcing someone to do their bidding and making them generally forgetful about the details at the same time must be responsible.
But then that's a pretty specific category consisting solely of Criss Angel, Mindfreak. But I've never met Criss Angel.
Or have I?!
No, I haven't. I think if I did and even if he put the stink-eye whammy on me to make me forget, I'd have found at least one tell-tale smudge of eyeliner or concealer somewhere about my home or on my person. Dude wears a lot of make-up.
The obvious answer must be that I do it for my readership, my devoted and loyal Bucketeers.
But then I looked at my 12 month Sitemeter graph and it looks like this:
That was quite a peak in July/August of last year, but since then...? Long slow decline. I'm looking more and more like the blog equivalent of David Lee Roth. One day you're "Hot For Teacher", then you're "Just A Gigolo" and eventually you're inspiring people to pay for radio which they've always gotten for free because you suck so badly at filling in for Howard Stern. But unlike me, at least Diamond Dave can pull off a scissor kick.
So as much I love and respect and appreciate the totally undeserved and frankly confounding loyalty of you Bucketeers out there, in terms of trajectory of cultural potency, it's looking like the ole Bucket is going the way of singer/songwriter/banjoist Nigel "Bloody Fingers" Siskind.
I know, you're thinking: Who?
Add to all this the daily bout of "Oh my God, I forgot how to be funny in text form! Today's the day I'm exposed as the fraud I know I am!" Yes, it's just a tedious and undeserving of your attention as it sounds.
But then, just before the darkness hit me full-on, just before I was about to finish this post with a dramatic announcement about how I didn't want to do this anymore and how the Bucket would be drastically changing it's format if not going away completely, it hit me.
What hit me, you ask? It was the last sentence of the second to last paragraph you just read: "Yes, it's just a tedious and undeserving of your attention as it sounds."
Tedium, self-absorption, boredom, navel-gazing, all manner of mental and verbal masturbation engaged in not just occasionally but exclusively when I have absolutely nothing to say and no idea how or even why I should say it.
And look! I just wrote 650 words about it!
And look again! You just read the whole thing!
After I even WARNED YOU that it was going to be all Pops-y!
Blogging is awesome.
I'll see you people tomorrow.
I love you guys.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 10.0 (only you'll have to imagine that 10 has been recalibrated to accommodate the new heights of narcissism displayed herein)